


He Who Fights Monsters

by monicawoe, nwspaprtaxis, quickreaver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe, Angst, Between Seasons/Series, Blood Drinking, Blood and Gore, Boyking!Sam, Cage Fights, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Genteensybang2014, Gorgeous Art, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hell Trauma, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Play, Multi, Needles, Pain, Post-Season/Series 03 Finale, Power Play, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sick Sam Winchester, Torture, Withdrawal, powers!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 10:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1466908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU of the summer between Seasons 3 and 4. Dean's dead, dragged down kicking and screaming to Hell. Sam's not dealing well. And Ruby’s got her work cut out for her. (Written for the 2014 GenTeensyBang at Live Journal.)</p><p>-Written by monicawoe and nwspaprtaxis; art by quickreaver</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

****

Ruby finds Sam in a dive bar off the corner of Mill Street in Pontiac. Six hours ago, she'd left him deep asleep in the abandoned cabin they'd been squatting in, covered by a dusty blanket and surrounded by empty bottles of beer and whiskey. She'd had an errand to take care of, one that couldn't wait. And when she'd come back, he'd been gone. 

Three men lie unconscious on the floor and Sam’s facing off against a fourth. Sam's staggering, fading; throwing sloppy punches, right hook after right hook, not bothering to switch to his left. _Drunk as a skunk. Fantastic,_ Ruby thinks. The other guy gets lucky with a hard cross to the ribs and a swift uppercut that catches Sam on the side of his face and drops him like a stone. The small crowd of onlookers gathered around them drifts apart, bored now that the violence is over.

"Dammit, Sam," Ruby hisses under her breath. Sam’s opponent catches a glimpse of her and his eyes flicker black for the barest of instances before he shoves past her, making tracks before the cops are called. “Lilith says hi,” he whispers, just loud enough for her to hear.

The floor is tacky and sticks to Ruby's jeans as she kneels next to Sam. He's still breathing so she stands, surveys the carnage. The show over, the crowd disperses, trickling out the door in a silent stream, some of them lugging unconscious buddies. The bartender stops wiping down the counter long enough to peer over to her. "Get him outta here. Bar’s closed," he grumbles as he turns away from them to resume wiping down the far side of the counter.

Ruby ignores the older man’s watchful gaze as she nudges Sam’s shoulder with her foot. A pained moan escapes Sam’s lips. He blinks up at her through bloodshot eyes and brings his hand to the purpling bruise spanning the right side of his face.

"C’mon,” Ruby says, crouching. “Up and at ‘em.” She hooks her hands into his armpits, pulls him to sitting. He doesn't help at all, his tall frame all but a dead weight in her grip. Not that it actually matters. Annoyed, she stands, dragging him to his feet. He sways unsteadily, her small body too low down to lean against. But he's standing at least.

Ruby leaves him teetering, and walks back to the bar. It smells of onions and ammonia. She slips a twenty out of her pocket and onto the counter. The bartender gives her a steady look and doesn’t say anything as he pauses in his motions, reaches out and takes the money without sparing her another glance, and resumes mopping the bar.

“Thanks for babysitting," Ruby pushes away from the counter and crosses the room, the soles of her boots sticking to the floor with every other step. “C’mon,” she says to Sam, not looking back. She hears Sam follow her out, and it's not until they round the corner that he grits out, "It was a demon. He said he saw Dean in Hell. Said he heard him scream."

"He's a liar," Ruby says, not breaking stride.

"You don't even know who it was."

Ruby fights back a smile. She might not have known whom Lilith was sending, but she'd dropped the hint about the younger Winchester's whereabouts herself after tracking him with a chant and a map. Of course, she wasn't about to tell Sam that. She stops and meets his gaze. “Dean’s not exactly in Cell Block D, Sam.” She doesn’t look to see if he’s understood, shouldering past him.

Sam follows in sullen silence until she hears him stumble on the uneven asphalt of the alley and fall with a sharp grunt. She doesn’t hear him get back up and when she turns back, he doesn't make any effort to move from where he's landed, curling on himself, his shoulder in a puddle.

He's given up. And that can't happen.

“Get up,” Ruby snarls. “Get the fuck up!” She gets the toe of her black leather boot under Sam's shoulder and kicks hard. The trajectory sends him into the nearest building, and he lands against the wall in a crooked slump.

He blinks at her.

She reaches down, grabs the front of his jacket and hauls, lifting him high over her head and pushing him against the wall. She’s disgusted his feet don’t even leave the ground and he just kind of sags partly upright. She really hates how short her meatsuit is, sometimes. Sam looks at her dumbly; his breath on her face is rank with alcohol. Momentarily, she's thankful for her muted sense of smell. Of course that doesn't do a thing about Sam's soul, which stinks of desperation and festering pain. She slams him against the brick and there’s a flicker of startled pain. _Good_. _You’re not completely useless_ , she thinks at him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Do you think Dean would’ve wanted this?” She doesn’t waste time or words, going instantly for the jugular.

“I couldn’t save him,” Sam says, voice cracking with grief and regret. “I tried— tried the crossroads and they wouldn't—" He wipes the back of his dirt-and-blood-caked hand across his mouth and meets her eyes through his overgrown hair. "They wouldn’t take me.” And in the dull red of the neon _BUDWEISER_ logo, she can see tears.

_Well, crying a river about it isn’t going to help shit_ , she thinks, but she gentles, unwinds her fists, knowing that this is what he needs right now. She rests her palms against his pectorals, rises up on her toes, and leans her mouth as close to his ear as her height will allow.

“What if I told you there was a way to bust Dean out?” She pulls back, sees the spark of interest in his eyes, and allows her own to flip black to remind him what she really is. “You won't like it. It's dangerous, it'll hurt and it'll probably kill you in the end." She smiles, takes his hand into hers, entwining their fingers, bringing it close to her breast. “But what've you got to lose, right?”

Sam lets out a breath, pushes away from the wall, disengaging himself from her, and straightens to his full height. He inhales deeply, letting out one last shuddering breath. She almost wants to scoff but doesn’t, stopping herself at the last minute, and she’s rewarded when his gaze hardens and bores into her. “Tell. Me.”

"Not like this. Sober up first," Ruby says, turning to look over her shoulder at the one-star hotel nearby. “Then we’ll talk.” She walks towards the door, and Sam's protests follow her like sweet music.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam's head hurts too much to sleep and his mouth is cottony from whiskey. He regrets sitting up as soon as he attempts it and leans back against the chapped plaster of the wall in their dingy motel room.

There's a glossy piece of paper on the nightstand, and he reaches out for it, long fingers just brushing the edge. He stretches, just enough for him to grab hold of the corner and pulls the sheet towards him, just for something to focus on besides the pain of his ill fated bar adventure.

"The Abyss," Sam mouths as he reads the bold lettering at the top of the flyer. There's a large arena pictured with an MMA-style octagon in the middle. Poorly drawn flames surround the outside of it. _Win all, win one._ One of the demons that had socked him said something about The Abyss.

Sam licks his lips, and wishes he had some water.

The door opens and Ruby arrives like a junk-food-laden genie. She's got two bags that stink of oil and salt. But more importantly she's holding a beverage tray bearing two giant cups of something in it. "You're awake," she says by way of greeting, and carries the food over to the coffee table by the ragged couch.

"I'm thirsty," Sam says.

She raises an eyebrow. "Then come over here. I don't want any more crumbs on the bed."

He stifles a moan as he shifts his legs over the side of the bed. His bruised ribs don't want him to move ever again, and his nose feels swollen and fat.

Ruby ignores his suffering, and plops down on the couch, scarfing down a handful of fries.

Sam's fingers crinkle the flyer in his hand while he tries to work up the energy to head towards sustenance. "Doesn't that hurt?" he asks, as he watches Ruby eat.

"The salt?" she smiles. "Yeah, but in a good way. Makes my tongue tingle."

"You’re eating something that's anathema to you."

"Doesn't change the fact that they’re delicious."

He's still stalling, delaying getting up for no reason other than to avoid more pain. "You can taste?"

"One of my favorite senses. Takes focus, but it's worth the effort."

They don't talk about this. Not ever. And maybe it's the liquor from earlier, or Sam's rattled brain, but before he can stop himself he asks. "When we... Do you...” He pauses, blurts, “Do you feel anything?"

"You're not exactly easy to miss, Sam."

"No I mean— Is it— Never mind." His cheeks flush and he stands, the need for some kind of cold liquid overriding the pain.

"Don't be a prude. Yes, I enjoy sex. Mostly I like the noises you make and the way you pull on my hair like you're gonna rip it out." She grabs her own soda and sucks on the straw. "You have a few times, you know. Torn out my hair. Luckily I've got plenty."

Sam swallows, cheeks flushing a deeper red. He grabs for his own drink and gulps down too-syrupy Coca-Cola.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I’m not. Everybody needs release sometimes." She smirks at him as she empties a packet of ketchup onto a torn off piece of the bag. "Obviously last night you needed something more."

Sam reaches into the other bag and finds a soggy burger. His nose wrinkles and there’s a spike of sadness when he unwraps it, but his stomach growls, too hungry to care. "I didn't go looking for a fight." He takes a bite of the burger and it's even worse than he expected, dry and burnt at the same time.

"Bullshit."

Eager to change the subject, Sam peers back towards the bed, at the flyer lying on the wrinkled sheets. "What's The Abyss?"

"Hm?" Ruby asks, sucking salt off her fingertips.

Sam gestures in the direction of the flyer with his empty hand. "What's The Abyss? The demon at the bar, he said, _Want me to win Dean back for you at The Abyss?_ "

Ruby narrows her eyes. "It's a place. For demons."

Sam's jaw tenses and he snatches the flyer off the bed, waving it at Ruby. The motion makes his shoulder and ribcage scream in protest, but he grits out, "Looks more like a competition to me. _Win all, win one,_ what does that even mean?"

Ruby huffs. "You got me. It's a demon fight club. They sign up and they fight other demons and if they make it all the way through — all seven levels — they can ask for a favor from Hell."

Sam's voice gets stuck in his throat. "Any favor?"

"Yup. A title, a free pass to stay on Earth, or..." she locks eyes with him, "a soul."

**::: ::: :::**

"You're joking," says the old man, narrowing his eyes as he peers up at Sam through the cloudy Plexiglas of his windowed booth. He looks back to Ruby. "There're quicker ways to kill a man."

"Just sign him up, Lars," Ruby says. "Need me to fill out a waiver?"

Lars blinks at her and then bursts out laughing, full-bellied, his wrinkled skin crinkling around his pale blue eyes. "That's funny. You're a funny girl."

"Yeah, I'm hilarious," Ruby deadpans.

Still chortling to himself, Lars punches a few more keys on the tobacco-stained laptop by his left and then hands her a slip of yellow paper and a key. "Locker 66, he'll get assigned a round in a few hours. Listen for his stage name."

Ruby nods. "Thanks, Lars."

"Don't mention it, Funny Girl," he says as he settles back down in his lopsided rolling chair.

She walks over to the wall, where Sam's glaring down at the floor.

"What crawled up your ass?" She holds the slip of paper out to him.

"Nothing," Sam snaps as he grabs the paper. "The Hunter," Sam reads. "What'd they need? My occupation?" He snorts. "Anyway, I'm retired."

"Not your occupation. Your stage name.” Ruby sets off for the locker rooms, hearing Sam mutter low protests as he trails her into the men's.

**::: ::: :::**

They sit in the waiting room, watching the fight on the closed-circuit television. Or rather Sam does, while Ruby looks up periodically from one of the six-month-old fashion magazines lying on the endtable. The airbrushed models look even less human than her.

The two fighters in the ring are evenly matched, or they were when they started. The taller one in the red shorts is starting to stumble though, exhaustion making his hooks weaken. He delivers a jab and a cross but misses his opponent's jaw by a hair. The other man, clad in pale blue, takes advantage and brings his knee up swiftly, knocking the air out of Red-Shorts.

Sam assesses every move, and Ruby knows he’s evaluating how he'd respond. He's never been in a fight like this, with an audience watching for sport, but he’s versed enough in combat to feel every punch, every kick. Years of sparring with Dean, his father, and every inhuman thing on Earth are all the training he'll ever need. Technically. Strength and stamina are something else entirely.

Sam’s nervous even though he insists he isn’t. He bounces on the balls of his feet, shifting from foot to foot.

“You want some Red Bull?” she says, setting down her magazine. “It’s not too late, you know…” She reaches slowly for the knife embedded in the top of her boot.

“No.” Sam’s answer is too sharp, abrupt.

“Then you're going to lose,” she says, settling back against the couch and drawing up her legs. “You don't know what you're getting yourself into, Butterfly.”

“I can handle it,” he all but growls at her. "And stop calling me that."

The cage on the television shimmers and Ruby narrows her eyes. She’d love to wrap her hands around the metal, to deconstruct the magic that makes up its structure. It smacks of her mentor’s work and she longs to feel the electric hum of the older demon’s power. The fencing, mat, the cage itself — they're all enchanted to make demons inside vulnerable in ways that matter. They don't care about the meat they wear, but their souls… their souls are all that's left of them. Inside the cage a punch doesn't just shatter bone, it cracks their very essence.

Red-Shorts goes down three minutes later, a tooth flying through the air as Pale-Blue rams Red-Shorts’ face into the cage, and Ruby is disappointed the television's muted. She’d have liked to hear him howl.

“C’mon,” she says, shutting off the television with the remote. “Let’s get you suited up.” She guides Sam out of the anteroom and into the tunnel just as the buzzer blares, a flat raspberry of a sound. The gate opens to a rumble of half-hearted cheers. Medical personnel in navy-blue scrubs swarm out, bearing an unconscious Red-Shorts on a stretcher.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” the disembodied, overdramatic public-address voice booms. “I give you…” another dramatic pause that makes Ruby roll her eyes. “The Hunter.”

The silence that follows is anticlimactic and there is a burble of sound, curiosity and grunts of amusement. Only the human contenders here have stage names. And when they get paired against demons the match doesn’t last very long. Thanks to the cage’s magic, humans can actually hurt their demonic opponents, but the demons are still four times as strong and nearly as fast. When there’s a human-demon fight, it's usually done for the sheer entertainment value than actual competition.

The buzzer blares again and Ruby stands on her tiptoes, pushes her lips against his cheek.

Sam looks at her curiously.

“For luck. Remember — you punch them in there, it'll hurt 'em deep,” she doesn’t elaborate as she shoves Sam towards the gate. The horn sounds as the gate rattles open. She sees Sam hesitate before going in. Her fingertips brush against the warded metal frame and she gasps at the spike of pain that tears at her insides, jerking back her hand.

“Packs a sting, doesn’t it?” there’s a low laugh and the burly Scandinavian steps from the shadows. “I take it your boy doesn’t know about the side effects.” There’s another chuckle. “This could be interesting.”

Something about Lars’ gap-toothed, tobacco-stained smile makes Ruby wonder if she really should’ve warned Sam about what the cage would do to him. But he was being difficult already, stubbornly hanging on to his flimsy archaic moral constructs, so she’d decided against it. It’d serve him right if he lost.

She turns back to the ring in time to see Pale-Blue pound his fist into the cupped palm of his other hand and give Sam a half-smirk as the mesh gate slams closed behind him. Pale-Blue is three inches shorter, but a good twenty pounds heavier than Sam. He's a southpaw, his right knee's swollen where Red-Shorts’d kicked him, and he's favoring his left foot.

The buzzer sounds for the final time, and Pale-Blue moves towards Sam. His legs are slow, but his arms are Bruce-Lee-fast. Sam can't quite dodge the first cross and knuckles graze the side of his cheek, the bottom of his ear. Sam’s jaw blooms red as he counters with an uppercut to the jaw.

Pale-Blue's head is knocked back hard enough that Ruby can hear teeth clack even from her distance. He stumbles a few feet, but catches himself, clenching his eyes shut for a breath before he refocuses on Sam.

Sam's focus doesn't waver; his eyes never leaving his opponent's. He fights well, but Pale Blue's got a few decades of Hell under his belt, and gets in hit after hit. He's toying with Sam, that much is obvious to every demonic soul watching — the punches are too light, a fraction of the force a demon is capable of. The crowd is mocking Sam already, chanting his stage name in a singsong rhythm.

After a slightly more authentic punch, Sam staggers, but stays upright, fights like a man with nothing to lose, punches growing sloppier as he tires.

_Wouldn't be so tuckered out if you'd listened to me,_ Ruby thinks, crossing her arms over her chest.

The next time Pale-Blue lashes out with his left fist, it catches Sam in the ribs hard enough to break a few.

Bright white motes — visible only to those who have the means to see them — drift up into the air as Sam drops to the mat and then fade to grey, settling down on his naked back like ash as he struggles to push himself upright again.

He teeters on his feet, grim determination in his eyes, but it's a surprise to no one when Pale-Blue takes him down again seconds later with one well-aimed kick to the head.

Sam's slower to get up after that one, and he sheds twice as many flecks of light as he crawls. Ruby's impressed that he can get back up at all, though he doesn't make it quite back onto all fours before Pale-Blue grabs him by the hair, pulls up his head, and rams his knee into Sam's jaw.

Sam is unconscious before he even hits the mat and the ref pulls up Pale-Blue’s arm in victory.

The last blow takes another good chunk out of Sam, making his soul sputter, little bits of hopes and memories fragmenting under the impact of the blow. It's fascinating to watch, so different from when a demon's soul is shattered. Sam isn't gradually disintegrating like they do. Azazel's blessing starts to fill in the microscopic pockmarks as quickly as they're formed, a sallow tone muting the light where Sam was struck. He's being patched together again. And Sam doesn't have a clue. Sure, he knows he's hurt — physically at least — but he has no idea how the cage is already starting to corrode his soul.

**::: ::: :::**

“You got coldcocked there, Butterfly.” Ruby moistens her lips with her tongue and grins. “It was _awesome_.” It shouldn't come as a surprise that she's smiling down at him without a hint of sympathy. "Went down like a sack of cement."

"Yeah," Sam snaps as he pushes himself to sitting. It’s a mistake. He leans forward, bunching the sheets in his fists as he pants slowly, swallowing down nausea. They're in the motel room, just a few blocks away from the arena. "How'd we get here?" He mutters, jaw aching too much to remember if they walked. Considering the way the room won't stop spinning, he's fairly certain they didn't walk, or at least, he didn't. Abstractly, he wonders if she’d carried him or if she’d had help.

"So how'd that whole _'I don't need a boost'_ plan work out?" Ruby asks as she turns her back on Sam and heads for the shabby loveseat on the other side of the room.

Sam gives her the finger, or intends to, but his temples throb anew and he winces instead, clenching his eyes shut against the wan light.

"That well, huh?" Ruby plops down onto the corner of the sofa, tucking her legs under her and leaning on the arm as she picks up a dog-eared magazine from the coffee table.

"What do you want from me, Ruby?" Sam snarls, forcing his eyes open again so he can glare at her.

She ignores him, turning the pages of her magazine like she's skimming the articles.

"I tried. I did everything you told me and it wasn't enough. I'm not strong enough."

Ruby drops the magazine in her lap. "No, you're not. And you're never going to be."

"Then why—"

"Not until you yank that stick out of your ass and step up your game."

"Step up? You mean drink your blood."

"Yes."

"I can't do that. You can't ask me to do that."

"Fine. Then don't ask me to help you save Dean."

A pulse of anger makes Sam's cheeks flush. "I'm going to save him."

"You can't. Not on your own, anyway. You said it yourself — you're not strong enough."

Sam pushes himself to his feet. He's not even sure what he's intending to do, not really. His hands are balled into fists and he's shaking — exhaustion and fury making it hard to see, let alone move. But he crosses the room anyway, until he's looking down at Ruby.

"I'll be out of here by tomorrow," Ruby says, standing. She gives him a withering look before turning on her heel. "And you can go back to drinking yourself into oblivion."

"No," Sam says, lunging for her before he can think better of it. He grabs for her arm, but the motion sends a spasm of agony through his broken ribs. His knees buckle and he falls, sprawled half over the edge of the couch, half on the floor.

Shame mixes with pain as he struggles to pull himself back up, but he can't. His body's drawn a line and flat-out refuses to cooperate any further.

There's a sigh from somewhere above him, a movement out of the corner of his eye. "It'll be okay, Sam," Ruby's voice says, as tapered fingers card through his hair, her small hand skimming over the massive bruise spanning the whole right side of his face up to his temple. It’s darkest where he’d been kneed in the jaw. He tries to turn away from her touch. Every inch of him aches and throbs, but he knows he deserves so much more.

With incongruous strength, Ruby loops her arm around his less injured left side and pulls Sam up onto the couch. He slumps back when she lets go of him, too shaky to do anything else. It's humiliating and he tries to protest, but manages little more than a pitiful groan.

"Shhh…" Ruby shushes even though he hasn’t said anything, sliding closer to him on the couch. "You need to take your medicine. Then you can sleep."

Sam shuts his eyes as he hears her butterfly knife snick open. He keeps them closed even when he hears her hiss as the tip of the sharp blade bites into her skin. She brings her wrist to his lips. Blindly, he tries turning away from her, feeling the warm tackiness smear on his cheek, but she follows, keeping her flesh pressed to his mouth and before he can stop himself, he’s licked and swallowed down the moistness on his lips. He latches onto the wound and drinks down the poison, feeling it burn its way down his throat. It should scald him from the inside, char his throat and his stomach and shrivel up his veins, arteries, stop his heart. But it doesn't. It won't let him die, as much as he deserves to.

He swallows and swallows. It tastes of ash and sulfur, but he can feel his broken ribs knit, mend, the swelling of his contusions recede. His ears are buzzing, and he can feel sparks running through his veins. Heat surges through him and he wants — _needs_ — to release the building pressure inside of him. When he opens his eyes, the room seems to tilt, fold in on itself, and he grabs onto the rough fabric of the couch to keep himself steady. The walls glow cherry-red and melt into some kind of Dali painting, before vanishing completely.

Sam can't see anymore, but he can hear, and what he hears makes his skin crawl. It's a scream he’d know anywhere, wordless and agonized, and it's all around him.

The scream grows louder along with the pulsing heartbeat in Sam's ears and then cuts off completely. The silence only last a fraction of a second, and when it picks up again rising in pitch, the agonized voice cries out Sam's name. _Dean_ is screaming his name.

Sam pulls away from Ruby with a gasp as bile rises in his throat. The room snaps back to normal — ugly tiger-striped walls, fake paneling, flimsy particleboard furniture — and Ruby’s leaning over him, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Ruby, I—" Sam tries to put into words what he heard, the horrible absurdity of it.

She looks at him, eyes solid black. "That's plenty for now. Get some rest; let the medicine do its thing. You'll feel better in the morning."

That last part is a lie. He won't feel better in the morning. He'll feel stronger and his body won't hurt anymore, that much is obvious — already, his ribs have faded to a dull ache and he feels better, stronger than he has in weeks. But Dean will still be in Hell — burning until Sam makes it all the way to Level Seven and wins.

He lies down, Ruby’s hand pushing gently on his shoulder, self-loathing and single-minded drive roiling in his gut.

**::: ::: :::**


	2. Chapter 2

She pushes up onto her tiptoes, twines her arms around Sam’s neck, digging her fingers into broad, bulked-out shoulders for purchase, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, and tilts up her face to his. She presses her lips against his, drawing one hand up to tangle at his nape as he places strong hands around her waist, cupping her ass, and lifts her. She wraps her legs around his narrow hips, not breaking their kiss.

Sam jerks at the sensation and his motion is arrested by her kiss. She tugs back, strokes his cheek with a forefinger.

“If you only knew how hard your wings could flap, Butterfly,” she breathes huskily.

“Ruby, I told—”

“Shhh.” She cuts him off. “I know. I know. You’ve done real good. Dean would be so proud. I wish he could be here to see you…” She sees the raw grief surge unbidden into his hazel eyes. _Good. This will serve._ “You just need a little liquid courage.” She bites down hard on her lower lip, tearing the skin. Blood wells up and Sam attacks her lips with a hard kiss, suckling at the coppery warmth.

The buzzer sounds and she pushes off of Sam's hard chest, meeting his eyes. There's fear there, but something else too — a healthy gleam of bloodlust. He might just have a chance.

The second buzzer sounds and Sam’s at the entrance to the catwalk. He’s stripped to the waist, clad only in gray board shorts, the sort worn by surfers, and fingerless black gloves strapped to his hands for traction.

At the third buzz, the partition rattles open and she can hear the roar of the crowd as Sam steps into the blindingly white strobing light. A hustler clad in a tight black t-shirt touches her elbow. “You ought to go back to your seat,” he says. “Your man’ll make it. Probably.” Black floods his eyes, obscuring the whites, irises, pupils, for the briefest of seconds and his mouth twists into a predatorily smile of anticipation.

Ruby matches his expression. “Yes,” she agrees. Her tongue snakes out, laps at the bitten flesh there as she allows him to lead her to her seat near the front row. She feels the thrum of energy of being surrounded by her own kind in her lifeless veins. “He will.”

The clang of the cage slamming shut sends a thrill of adrenaline down her spine. Dimly, as though from far away, she hears the announcer screaming over the cheering, jeering crowd. A chant begins. Hunter. The stage name is a taunt on most of their lips. Despite everything, Hell's grapevine knows about Sam Winchester, although most of it is just hearsay. In the end, he's still just a human. If only they knew, she thinks, feeling herself smile. Sam turns his head slightly to the side, catches a glimpse of her and she burrows deeper in his old brown hoodie, burying her narrow curves under fleece and stiff fabric. She grins at him, allowing her eyes to flip beetle-black for an instant as she leans forward, lips parting in anticipation.

Pain. Destruction. Chaos. Those were the things she lived, existed, for. And Lucifer knew these cage fights were right up her alley. Shame she hadn’t discovered these decades ago or been around for the Roman gladiatorial rings.

And the fact that Sam Winchester was so easy to play… well, that was merely a bonus.

**::: ::: :::**

The cage stinks of sweat and old blood. Sam is getting used to the scent, starting to crave it. Naturally, he identifies it with pain — the kind of pain overwhelming enough to shut off his brain for just a few minutes. A few minutes where he doesn't hate himself for all his failures, for what happened to Dean because he was too weak.

He hadn't been able to save Dean. The hounds had torn him to shreds and Sam hadn't been able to do a damn thing but watch as his brother screamed until he died. He'd been powerless to stop it; too impotent to do a goddamn thing.

He couldn't be weak again. Not if he was going to save Dean.

The door on the far side of the cage retracts as his opponent enters. He's tall — nearly as tall as Sam himself, with a shaved head and a tattoo-covered chest. He sees Sam, winks at him and spits on the mat where he passes by.

Sam doesn't respond, looking past the man's skin and muscle to what's underneath. The strength of his opponent's body is irrelevant. It had taken Sam six weeks, two levels, eight broken ribs, a broken nose, a concussion, and bruises bigger than his fist to learn that lesson, but he gets it now.

The body across from him is strong, a good match physically but only the oily black cloud inside of it matters. Cautiously, Sam runs his mind over the demon's energy, careful not to tip it off early. If he plays things close to his chest, this match could be over before it starts.

The buzzer sounds, and the man darts forward, lifting his arms up in a defensive position before quickly bringing his knee toward Sam's ribs. Sam sidesteps him, rolls across the mat, comes up on one knee; one hand on the floor and the other held straight out.

The man freezes where he stands, as the demon inside of him seizes and panics. His eyes flood black and he fights back, pushing at Sam with his mind.

Sam shrugs off the strike of power easily, and a flush of satisfaction runs through him, warming his bones. He's strong, thanks to the extra doses he took from Ruby this morning and then again just before the fight. He can still taste the faint hint of sulfur on his tongue; feel her blood inside his own, taking his power and amplifying it tenfold.

He calls on that power now, wrapping it around the demon as he shoves back, knocking his opponent down, immobilizing him against the mat. Sam takes his time walking across the mat as the audience starts to scream, bloodthirsty and hungry for action. He drops down, pinning the demon under one knee, lays his hand on the man's chest and pulls.

The demon begins to cough and choke, but it digs its heels in, holding onto its stolen body with all the energy it can muster.

It's not enough. It's strong, but Sam is stronger. He's finally stronger.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam wrestles the demon down, straddles him. He glares, raises one hand and Ruby can tell the moment it happens; that shift and stutter when he searches, finds, and gets it.

Black smoke begins to plume, spread, like a low-lying costal fog, then it gathers, churning into a pillar, and shoots upwards into the ceiling.

Once, that might’ve elicited a gasp from the crowd, a mad scramble for the exits, but not anymore. Ruby glances at either side of her, cranes her neck. Most of them are Level Ones, maybe Twos — bottom feeders, grunts, and cannon fodder. The one in the ring is a Level Three; the third and final Sam will have to battle if he wins this round. Once, she would’ve thought that the audience would be more terrified the stronger, more controlled Sam became, a titan among humans. Instead, the reverse proved true — the higher Sam climbed through the ranks, the more reassured and complacent they became. After all, what did they have to fear? They didn’t have what Sam wanted or even the power to sway those who did. They were disposable and that protected them. Ruby scans the crowd. Barring herself, the hustler, and the ref, all of them Level Five, there were none higher than a Level Three. She turns her gaze back to the cage where Sam stood over the prone, unmoving form of his latest conquest, arm pulled high in victory by the Ref.

Ruby narrows her eyes, cataloguing his battered body. There are bruises on his cheek and torso; already beginning to heal as the remnants of her blood still in his system works its magic. The hematoma in his right ear will be gone in an hour or two. _Good thing too,_ she thinks. She’s seen the permanent marks this kind of fighting leaves on humans; disfigurements they wear like badges of honor, deformed helix and scapha, signs of a true warrior.

Sam's lack of those marks makes demons even more likely to underestimate him when they first see him. They think he's green. Untested. But they won't think that after tonight. That'd be good news, except that it’s only going to get harder from here. His opponents will be more powerful with every climb in the ranks, which means Sam's gotta keep up. And right now, he's barely standing.

He’s slick with a thick sheen of sweat, his skin reflecting the harsh, fluorescent lighting that washes him out to a sickly, unnatural pallor. He’s too pale, panting open-mouthed, body heaving laboriously as though he’s trying to suck up dirty pond-water through a drinking straw. She probes, senses his weakness. He’d overexerted himself, wasted too much of his strength when he didn’t have to. He sways where he stands, even with support, but he shifts his footing, steadies. She half-expects him to pass out or at least stagger when the Ref finally releases his arm. But if there’s one thing she’s learned in the past few weeks, it is to never, ever, underestimate Sam Winchester. True to his upbringing, and in a manner that would’ve made his father proud, Sam straightens and walks steadily out of the cage, doors slamming behind him as the lights brighten in the stands.

She rises from her seat, steps around knees and legs until she reaches the aisle and rushes in the direction of the locker room. As she runs, her stride unbroken by the knee-high, low-heeled leather boots, she pats the pockets of her too-large borrowed hoodie, feeling for her switchblade. She finds Sam slumped up against a wall inside the locker room and it’s clear that if he stepped away, he’d go straight down. As it is, his legs are visibly quivering and he’s jittery as fuck. She wonders how he even made it there.

“Ruby,” he gasps out, all raw relief, and she can tell from his voice that he has no idea what he wants or needs. Fear rolls off him in sharp, rancid waves. His hands clench and unclench and his eyes are frantic as they seek hers out. “Help me.” He sounds so very, very young and so very, very human. Had she been a newer, less corrupted demon, she might’ve been moved to sympathy.

“Please,” Sam adds as though that one word could grant him everything. She’d been like that, once, before she mucked around in witchcraft and went to Hell and rose through the ranks. Ambition was a commodity in Hell. Everything that’d condemned her to the stake on Earth was a virtue to be valued and exploited. She was born to be a demon.

She works her face into something she hopes resembles concern and presses up close to Sam, closes her hand around his wrist. He’s flushed, still sweating buckets. The pulse beneath her fingers is too quick, like a bird that knows its about to have its head snapped off. He’s shuddering all over and she can see the muscles bunch in his jaw from the strain of not allowing his teeth to chatter. Red dribbles from his nose and he raises a hand absently, smearing the back of it above his lip. The resulting mess makes him look all of two years old.

“Help,” he repeats. “Please.”

**::: ::: :::**

Ruby's switchblade glimmers in the dim light of the tunnel as she holds it up before him and Sam feels a low, needy sound in the back of his throat. She twirls the knife between her fingers before turning on her heel.

He follows Ruby and her shining metal down the hall, staggering and pushing off the walls to stay on his feet, past the lockers to the showers, where she hustles him into a stall, shoves his back against the wall.

The tiles feel ice-cold against his burning skin and the shivers running through him get worse. He grabs at Ruby's wrists, desperate and craving relief, but too uncoordinated to do anything about it.

"You did so good today," she croons, leaning in close. She brings her blade up to her throat. "You deserve a prize." She slices just above her collarbone, a nice wide cut and Sam feels himself harden just watching the all that red well up. He pulls her towards him and seals his mouth around the wound. The blood burns beautifully against his tongue and he hears himself moaning and god if only he could make the blood flow faster because he's so very, very thirsty.

"That's it," she says, arching back her neck to widen the cut. She brings her hand down to his shorts, slips slender fingers between the elastic and wraps them around his cock. "Drink up, Butterfly."

And he does. He drinks deeply, letting Ruby's blood soothe the aches in his muscles, letting it make him whole. He can feel the tear in his ankle mend itself and his muscles don't hurt anymore. Nothing hurts anymore.

"You did so good today."

Sam ruts against her, the pleasure inside of him building far too fast. His exhaustion's fading, the blood re-energizing every part of him. He growls as Ruby's fingers squeeze tighter and spills release into her hand at the sound of someone else's torment. He swallows one last time and stills, waiting to hear Dean's voice cry out again.

There’s nothing except the rasp of his breathing. Ruby pulls her hand free, fiddles with the knobs on the wall until water starts to rain down form the showerhead above. It takes Sam a few seconds to realize he's still dressed, and he's not sure he cares. He watches his sneakers darken under the spray. Dean was screaming again. That was him screaming. And it hadn't kept Sam from taking what he needed. He wants to believe that he would've stopped if he'd heard Dean earlier. That he would've remembered what he was doing — who he was drinking from. Not just a demon; a demon inside an empty shell of a woman he'd never even met. He knows what Ruby is, knows bone-deep that she's got to have another agenda. Demons lie, demons plot, demons manipulate. And Ruby might be in a pretty package, but she feels just like all the others on the inside. Sam can feel her burnt soul; can see it squirming under her skin when he lets his vision defocus.

"They're moving you up into the Level Four rounds," Ruby says, rubbing lukewarm, soapy water over Sam's shoulders. Her boots are just outside the reach of the water, but a few droplets of water pepper the light fabric of her shirt, giving it dark grey polka dots. "First match is next Tuesday."

Sam meets her eyes, sees the darkness hiding underneath the sclera. "Christo," he whispers.

Ruby flinches, her eyes bleeding black instantly. She shoves at him, frowning. "What was that for?"

Sam reaches behind him, pumps some soap from the dispenser and starts washing under his arms, ignoring her question.

She scoffs. "Fine. You want to play Truth Or Dare?"

He keeps ignoring her, an odd self-satisfied trill running through him at the tone of her voice. He grabs another handful of soap, and is about to massage it into his hair when his head collides with the hard tile behind him. Ruby's got her small fingers around his throat, thumb pushing unpleasantly against his Adam's apple.

"Here's a Truth for you." Ruby sneers. "You're not ready for Level Four. Not even close. They're going to wipe the floor with you unless you step up. You have to be a lot stronger."

Sam grabs her tiny wrist, tries to pull away her hand, but he can't. He meets her eyes instead, challenges her to keep going.

She lets go with a huff. "You want to save Dean? You want to stop Lilith?"

Sam brings his hand to his throat, still glaring at her. "Yes."

"Then here’s a Dare: trust me. You can't do this on your own. But if you want to try, be my guest." With one last look of disgust, she turns her back on him and leaves.

**::: ::: :::**

Ruby paces the darkened hall outside the weight room the contenders use between fights. She knows Sam’s inside doing something stupid. She'd tried kicking down the door and was thrown six feet down the hallway — the dumbass fucking warded it. She punches the wall, denting the sweating, painted concrete. The action is an unexpected strain. She rubs at her core muscles. It still aches from when she got caught up in the periphery of Sam’s power the other day and the struggle it took to remain rooted in her meatsuit. It hadn’t been easy but she’d given Sam a taste of what was to come — the effort’d knocked him out for three-quarters of an hour and induced a sluggish nosebleed that wouldn’t fully stem for another hour after that. She’d given him today off and instead of resting he's training. Alone. Dumbo was getting a little too cocky and trusting of his feather. The attitude doesn’t suit him.

She’s about to turn on her heel for another length when—

“Hey there,” a syrup-smooth voice says directly in front of her. “Didn't take you for the lovesick puppy type. If I didn't know better, I'd say you looked worried.” Ruby stops in her tracks, her eyes following a pair of brown boots upward to denim jeans, a leather motorcycle jacket that cinches at the waist.

Ruby narrows her eyes. She recognizes this scent, recognizes the face under the skin, but the name eludes her.

“I go by Meg, now,” the curly-haired demon tells her, a slow smile spreading across her features. It's lethal, like a cat that’d caught the canary about to eat its prey. Meg flicks her gaze up and down, taking stock. “Ruby, right?”

Ruby doesn’t acknowledge the question and Meg clucks her tongue. “You always were a little slow on the uptake.” Meg exhales, smiles again. “That's okay, I won't take it personal. Word on the street says you’ve shacked up with Sam Winchester...” And before she can make another comment, Ruby's got her slammed up against the wall, forearm pressed against Meg’s windpipe, point of her demon-killing blade pushing up at the soft flesh at the hollow of the bitch’s throat.

Meg smiles. “So what they say is true.” She lowers her voice to a husky whisper. “You really don't want to piss me off… See…” Another drop in cadence, an incline of the head as though sharing a deep secret between confidants, “I’m on the roster for Level Five and I am so looking forward to it. Sam ‘n’ I, see, we go back a ways and I got something of a beef to pick with him. He and his gem of a brother sent me back to Hell. Twice."

"Better Hell than death," Ruby says, letting go of Meg's throat.

Meg straightens, smoothing down her jacket. "You don't want me to make it even harder on your Sweet Babboo, do you?" She grins. "You know what that cage does to us. What it's doing to him. So,” a pause, a soft exhale of breath she doesn’t need. “What is it gonna be?”

Ruby scowls, lets out a bitter hiss of disgust and backs off, sticking her knife into the top of her boot.

Meg steps away from the wall. “I thought so. Well, ta-rah, Coach. See you in a bit.” She turns, hips swaying, as though to depart, when she suddenly stops in her tracks. Turning her head to look over her shoulder. “Oh, before I forget, Dean Winchester stepped off the rack. Apparently he couldn’t take it. And tonight’s opponent is an old friend of Sam’s. You might want to give him a head’s up. She’s a new Four and got the rage, if you know what I mean…”

**::: ::: :::**

The mirror in the arena's gym is cracked in places and covered in brown patches where the silver backing has started to deteriorate from decades of moisture and heat. Sam looks himself over as he stands in front of the rack of weights. The gashes and bruises from the last few weeks have all but disappeared, Ruby's blood has been the world's best healing balm, inside and out. His nose still looks a little more crooked than it used to thanks to the break from one of his first fights and his broken ribs have healed, but not all of them evenly. He can see the jagged line on the bottom left, when he leans forward and picks up a pair of dumbbells from the rack.

Within two reps he determines they're too light and switches them out for a heavier pair. The demon blood is making him stronger than a human has any right to be, but then he's never been entirely human, as much as he hates to admit it.

The problem, he thinks, as he starts a set of biceps curls, is that physical strength is nearly entirely irrelevant with demons. The reason he still trains is because the human part of him needs to — he's not as strong physically as the demons are, and if he wants to hold his own, he has to be. In here, he can push his boundaries; learn how to use more than just muscle to move weight. He takes a deep breath, lowers his arms, brings the weights together, and then grabs both dumbbells in one hand, his long fingers just barely wrapping around the second bar.

It's too much. The tendons in his arm tear, sending sharp spikes of pain through him. He should let the weights drop, should stop right there, but he doesn't. He won't. Ruby's words from months ago flood back: _This is nothing compared to what your brother is going through_ , and he clings onto that thought because he knows it's true — he’s heard Dean screaming — and no matter how much he hurts himself it will never begin to compare with Hell. Arteries burst, and for a second his bicep almost separates completely from the bone, but he refuses to stop. He calls on that part of him that Ruby's been feeding — the part that's been getting larger and hungrier every day and tries to bring it to heel — focuses all his energy on pushing that power into his arm, commanding it to fix the damage, to make him strong. But all he gets for his effort is even more agony and a nosebleed. The world goes a little hazy, a little sideways, as the weights drop from his hands, thudding heavily to the floor, just as the door slams open.

"What the hell are you doing, Sam?" Ruby snaps.

He's too busy clutching his damaged arm to pay any attention to her.

"Why would you ever lock that door?" She snarls. "And put wards on it! Are you insane?"

"I had to test something," he says. "I had to try it myself."

She walks around him and drops to her knees so she can get a look at his arm. "What were you testing? How stupid you are?"

She makes to grab for his arm and Sam flinches away, crying out at the pain the movement causes.

"Oh this is just great," she snaps. "Brilliant. Look if you don't want to fight in Level Four, you could've just told me instead of ripping your—"

"I want to fight," Sam says furiously, meeting her eyes. "But I have to be stronger. You said it yourself, they're gonna wipe the floor with me if I don't step up."

"So you let me help you," she says. "Don’t do — whatever this is." She takes his arm, more gently this time, and looks at the bruised area in the fold of his arm, blood from the damaged artery pooling around the swollen tendon.

"You said I had to push past human limitations if I wanted to keep up with them. Said that with enough time and blood I could be just as strong as they are. He glares down at the dumbbells. "Well guess what? I broke like a human." Sam clenches his fists and he immediately regrets the pain that follows. He curls over his arm with a low cry, tears smarting his eyes. He gives himself ten seconds to process the pain and straightens, his breath still sawing in his throat. When he’s able to see straight again, he glares up at Ruby. “The match is tonight.”

"Should've thought of that before you played Mr. Lifto," Ruby comments mildly, not looking up from his purple-black flesh.

Sam scoffs. "When am I going to be stronger?"

"When I teach you how."

"When are you going to teach me?"

"When you get it through your skull that our kind of strength has nothing to do with muscle. You haven't even learned how to process what I’m giving you yet." The implication that there’s more at his disposal hangs in the silence between them. She sighs and runs her fingertips over the steadily darkening bruise. "Come on, let's get you fixed up."

**::: ::: :::**

Despite Ruby's triage, the repercussions of Sam's experiment are disastrous. His opponent is wearing a female host, a tiny thing who shouldn't be the least bit of a match physically.

Yet somehow he spends more time on the mat this match than he has since he started this life. Every time he gets up, she throws him back down, sometimes with a burst of power he can't avoid no matter how hard he tries and sometimes with her body. Sam uses every trick Ruby has taught him, trying to plant himself firmly where he is, trying to resist her power but she's so damn strong, and he… isn't. When he calls on the power inside of him, he finds it waning far faster than it should be. He's tired, and when she knocks him down for the sixth time that round with a roundhouse kick that connects with his temple he almost doesn't get up, almost decides it’s worth taking a forfeit or a loss.

That is, until she says, "Dean got off the rack tonight, you know."

Sam's spine tenses and he swallows, pushing himself back to his feet. He looks the demon in the eyes. "Meg?"

She scoffs, smiles. "Not quite. Although I must admit she wouldn’t be happy you thought her level was so low." She lifts her hand up and studies her nails, frowning as she picks at a chip in the pearlescent-white polish. She lets her hand drop, looks up at him. "I'm new to this whole thing myself, you know, just a little more time down below than Dean — a month up here, ten years down there. Not much, but it does make a difference.”

Sam’s brain stutters, stalls, and restarts, as he processes the demon’s words. "W-what? What do you mean ten years?"

She laughs, then, high and sharp, and he knows that laugh. "Bela."

"In the flesh." She looks down at her body. "Well, not my flesh, unfortunately, but you know what I mean. It’ll do for now, considering my original one was dog chow." Without warning she runs towards him again, jumps up to deliver a flying kick, and Sam has had just about enough.

He ducks under her legs, grabs her by the ankles and slams her into the mat, hard.

She lands with a sharp _oof_ , and grins up at him, eyes black as pitch. "’Atta boy. Dean would be proud."

"Tell me," Sam says, before he can think better of it. "Tell me about him."

"Oh you don't want me to do that, darling."

"Tell. Me." Sam says, forcing power behind the words.

Bela raises an eyebrow. "Well, if you insist." She punches him in the ribs, rolls away, and jumps to her feet. "He's learning the tools of the trade. Moving his way up the ranks. Level One Trainee." She begins to bounce back and forth on the balls of her feet, getting ready to kick him again.

"No."

"Now why would I lie to you?"

"Because you were a liar when you were alive." Sam begins to gather what remaining power he has, feeding as much of his rage into it as he can.

"I was a thief. There's a difference."

"What did they do to Dean?"

The ref laughs from his spot against the cage fence.

"Oh sweetheart, trust me, you really really don't want to know the answer to that."

She makes her move, but Sam sidesteps her, drops to his knees and holds both of his palms straight out, channeling every drop of power he has left, grabbing hold of the oily blackness inside of her.

Eyes widening in shock, Bela begins to choke.

Sam can feel his vision going, and something hot drips out of his nose. He doesn't have enough left in him to do what he's trying to do, but he doesn't care. There's a pop somewhere near the back of his head, and he's sure a capillary just burst. Stars dance in front of him and he can barely see the cage, or the audience, or the lights. All he can see is the black cloud of Bela's true form as he tears her from her borrowed body. She screams as she's funneled back down to Hell, a circle of red ash forming where he sends her back down.

He can feel himself smiling, just before it all goes black.

**::: ::: :::**


	3. Chapter 3

She stands in the doorway of the bedroom, watching him sleep. He’s gotten bigger since this afternoon, what with the extra doses she’d had to give him to keep him functional after the stunt he’d pulled with ripping his arm out of his socket. Not to mention the new bruises and contusions he’d gained during tonight’s fight. His face is swollen with fluid retention and she can tell from the careful way he’s lying — partly on his back, partly on his side, the spare pillow hugged to his front — that his ribs are bothering him again. She hopes his arm is aching too; it’d serve him right.

He’d begged, pleaded with her for a hit, a drop to take the edge off when he’d finally come around on that cot in the storage closet that does double-duty as a medic center during the moonlit matches. She’d refused and helped him sit, waiting out the dizziness and nausea. He hadn’t dropped the matter, unable to accept her rejection, imploring for relief. He'd earned it after all, he said. Won the fight. And she'd had to explain, then, that no, he hadn't won, that matches Level Four and higher were to the death. He hadn't killed Bela; he'd just deposed her. He'd defaulted on a fight, which disqualified him from competing for a week.

Even after he’d submitted to the fact that he'd lost, he’d asked for a taste of her, saying he'd used every last drop pulling Bela out. It was true, too.

She’d rebuffed him and he’d cried then, sniveled like some kind of pathetic junkie or the toddler she never had the desire to bear, all messy tears and snot, but he hadn’t been shaking, hadn’t been undone — just driven weak by basic exhaustion and pain. Instead, she’d given him four Advils and helped him hobble to the hotel three blocks away. The walk, even with breaks, had taken almost everything out of him and she’d had to practically carry him up the stairs to their room. When she’d finally laid Sam out on the bed and got him settled, the boy nearly wept with relief at being horizontal again.

Sleep was a far better cure right now than her blood, for as much as he believed otherwise, at his core, Sam Winchester was human.

She exhales, scrubs the small hand towel through her hair one last time, squeezing out the excess water, and slips back into the bathroom, hangs up the towels on the metal rack, and shuts off the light. Padding in bare feet over the crunchy, gritty carpet, she makes her way to the bed, not caring if anyone sees her naked form through the open window, and slides in between the hot, sticky covers, spooning up behind Sam.

He shudders, stirs, at her contact, but doesn’t wake. She slides her arms around his middle, grateful her meatsuit is actually a corpse because the arm pinned under Sam would be numb in seconds, and squeezes his narrow waist. She presses her lips against the nasty, thick, celluloid scar in the center of his back and pretends to sleep.

**::: ::: :::**

The world is too bright, and his heavy eyelids don't want to stay open anyway. He's in far too much pain to keep sleeping, though, drifting in and out of an uneasy half-doze.

He can smell Ruby before he sees her; the sulfur scent of her blood and the ache inside of him grows stronger. He tries to call out to her but his voice cracks and all he can do is croak.

 _Please_ , he thinks, hoping she'll somehow hear him, read his mind. He reaches for the glass of water on the nightstand and knocks it over. The crash gets her attention and she’s at his side almost instantly. When she pushes his sweat-soaked hair out of his face, he tries to nuzzle at her wrist, but only succeeds in rubbing his nose against her hand briefly.

"Not yet," she says, withdrawing. She leaves his side and he feels even worse. She’s back in a moment, though, bearing a fresh glass of water and Tylenol. He wants to throw them against the wall, wants to scream, but he can't because he just doesn't have the energy. Angry, hurt tears threaten to spill out of his eyes as he closes them and wordlessly takes the pills, knowing they will do shit. Ruby holds the glass of water to his lips and he swallows, washing down the pills, and with the scent of her so close he can almost pretend that it's something else. But it isn't, its just water and there's no relief. Not for him.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam wakes up alone and restless. He downs the pitcher of water Ruby left for him and after pacing the small room for a minute decides he needs to go for a run. The room smells too much like Ruby.

He slips into a pair of running shorts and a relatively clean t-shirt and heads down the stairs, out into the brisk morning air. It must be a workday, because he has the sidewalks to himself. He runs aimlessly, the rhythm of his feet against the pavement numbing his thoughts. He turns down a side street and another and, minutes later, finds himself heading towards The Abyss, drawn there on autopilot. He slows as he approaches the back entrance, and heads towards the locker rooms.

The old man's sitting where he always is, behind the Plexiglas of his booth, nose buried in a newspaper. He doesn't look up until Sam raps his knuckles against the window.

"Ja?" Lars narrows his eyes when he sees Sam, gives him an once-over, eyes resting briefly on his sweat-stained collar. "Ah, the Boy Wonder. You're not looking so good. Where's Funny Girl?"

Sam's teeth grind. "Not being very funny at the moment."

Lars purses his lips. He sets his paper down and stands, propping his hands against the peeling countertop. "How can I help you?"

Sam feels oddly short. The man is about his own height, maybe even a little taller, but the booth gives him another good three inches. "I have some questions."

"Don't we all." He picks up his cigarette and takes a long drag, taps it over the ashtray. Waits.

"About the— the levels."

"Mm?"

Sam exhales, doesn’t meet the burly Scandinavian’s eyes. "I know why I signed up for this, but the demons I'm fighting…” He looks up. “Why… How do they end up here?"

Lars cocks an eyebrow. "Why do you care?"

"Motivation makes a difference."

"Debatable. Put a man in a cage with a starving bear, does it matter why the man wants to escape?"

Sam blinks. "Of course."

"Not to the bear." Lars sucks on his cigarette, exhales a smoke ring above his head. He stubs out the ashes, fixes his gaze on Sam. "Some of them volunteer. Death is no cure for stupidity." He shrugs. "But most of them are here because they have to be. Punishment decreed by the Queen of Hell.”

"Demons love violence." Sam shakes out his tingling right hand, trying to get the pins and needles to stop. "Not much of a punishment."

"They do. But the cage makes that violence a weapon. Every punch, every kick makes another dent in their souls. The fights chip away at them piece by piece. Here, they can kill each other."

Sam wonders what the cage is doing to his soul. He knows he's missing pieces, but that's been the case since Dean died. Sometimes Ruby makes him feel a little less empty. But right now, strung out and tensed with a physical need he can't ignore, his insides feel jagged. He imagines waterfalls of red running down the juts of stone that don’t fit together anymore and smoothing them out, filling him until there's no more room for that sharp ache.

"But you," Lars says thoughtfully. "You can kill them a different way, can't you?"

Sam shifts his eyes down to the ancient computer in the back of the booth. "Do you know who I'm up against next week?"

"Ja."

"Can you tell me?"

"That would be against the rules."

Sam frowns. Count on him to pick the one guy who's a stickler for policy. "What do you think my chances are?"

Lars coughs out a laugh. "That all depends on how motivated you are, Little Bear."

Sam cracks his knuckles instead of punching the glass. "And if I win, do I really get to claim a soul?"

"If you make it through all of the opponents in all of the levels, ja."

"How many others have done it?"

The skin around Lars' eyes crinkles as he smiles. "Only one."

"Who?"

"A son who loved his father, a father who loved his daughter."

"What's his name?"

"None of your business."

"Come on, man—"

"I'll tell you what. You make it through Level Four. Come back and see me and maybe I'll tell you his name."

"Maybe?"

Lars’ smile fades. "Maybe. My stories are all I have. I don't share them with the undeserving." He sits back down in his chair. "Go back to Funny Girl before she worries about you."

Sam scoffs. Ruby's not worried about him. If she were, she wouldn't be holding out on him like this. His fingers tighten at the thought of her and he feels his pulse speed up, his throat tense. He can practically taste her blood on his tongue and just the thought of it makes his mouth dry. The locker room door clatters a few feet away and Sam's head whips towards the demon walking out into the hall. He can smell its blood.

Without another glance at the old man, Sam heads back out the door, and runs back to the hotel.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam quiets, becomes more restless, as the day goes on and she knows he has to be hurting. When he tells her he’s going for a run, his third since she’s returned from a coffee run to find him gone, she sees a tremor run through his frame. Later, when he returns, sweat-slick and panting, he doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t ask for reprieve. He strips naked without showering and curls up on the bed, drawing up his legs and clinging desperately to one of their pillows as though it’s a rock in a stormy sea. For all she knows, it’s probably the one thing that isn’t pitching like a tilt-a-whirl. After a while, she sees him tense, squeeze his knees together. She watches and there’s a regular, rhythmic pattern to his movements, the way he goes rigid, holds, and relaxes. _Cramps_. He ruts his hips against the mattress, squirming, and when she goes to him, he snarls at her, all wounded animal wanting to be left alone.

She stretches out on the floor beside the queen-sized bed, naked as the day she was born, fully aware of her curves, her breasts. Sam groans, buries his face into the pillow, and there’s a roll to his body that she recognizes as him trying to resist his own base needs… or jerking off. It’s hard to tell the difference, sometimes. She huffs out a breath, rolls onto her stomach and hears Sam moan softly. She isn’t sure if it’s relief or pain. She slides into the downward-dog yoga pose, slipping into the upward-dog, then dipping back down to curl into the child.

With a grunt, Sam suddenly shoves the pillow from him, stumbles past her, and she hears him crash to his knees in the bathroom. Then there’s the sound of retching.

She rises, snagging the wad of fabric from the foot of the bed, shaking it out as she takes the few steps to the still-open door. She slips on Sam’s sleeveless white MMA muscle shirt she’d altered to fit her and leans against the jamb, watching him sweat and shudder and heave, veins ridging in his hands and arms from the strain of holding himself over the toilet. His knuckles whiten as he grips the porcelain. He lets out a grunting moan, rises higher on his knees, spreading his legs, and she can see his erection pushing against the thin fabric of his briefs. She smiles to herself, allowing a private, slight upturn of her lips, before settling her face into a scowl.

He vomits again, his growing-out hair hanging in sweaty, lank strands around his face, the ends dangling over the bowl.

She closes the gap between them, but doesn’t offer her touch or any words of reassurance. After a moment of watching him grope himself for relief, his shallow breathing loud in the silence, she reaches for the handle and flushes the sick down the toilet.

“ _Now_ are you ready to listen to me?”

**::: ::: :::**

"Yes," Sam grits out as he slings his arm over shoulder. She walks him back to the bed and drops him onto the sheets. He tries to make himself comfortable, settling onto his left side, which hurts only slightly less than his right. Ruby perches on the couch on the far side of the room and draws up her knees, so her shirt slips up to her hips. She isn’t wearing underwear.

Sam's cock twitches at the sight of the velvety darkness between her legs and if he could just keep the room from tilting all around him, he'd go to the couch, drop between her legs, and then, maybe, she'd give him what he needs. Or at the very least give him a moment of pleasure to make it easier. Miserably, he pushes himself further up onto the mattress with shaking legs and pulls the sweated-through covers over him. He shivers.

He hates this. Hates this awful need inside of him, the craving that overwhelms him and overpowers everything else, leaving him strung-out and sick to his stomach. He's a pitiful excuse for a human being. A junkie. Because he knows what's inside her veins, knows that if he just does whatever it is she wants him to do, she'll give him some. She's never held out on him like this before, but, then again, he's never pissed her off this badly. He remembers when Dean used to get mad at him, and how he'd let Sam suffer through hours of the cold shoulder treatment. With Dean, he’d known what to expect. This is worse. Foreign territory.

She's dressed in just a white tank top, long enough that it skims the middle of her thighs and he’s pretty sure it once belonged to him. She comes to sit next to him and her smell, _god_ the smell of her blood makes his heart pound in his chest. He clenches his eyes shut, forcing his hunger back, as she peels the wet sheet from his body.

His paper-thin control is slipping. He fell past the point of craving and into a desperate pit of _need_ hours ago. He should leave, should go for one more run and never turn back.

But even that wouldn't help. It’d be worse because what he needs is out there too, in every vein of every man, woman or child possessed by a demon. With Ruby at least he knows he isn't hurting anyone else. There’s no one gagged and bound beneath the swirling darkness that is Ruby. If he steps out of the hotel now, his whole body trembling with hunger, then it'll only be a matter of minutes before his resolve breaks.

So he'll play whatever game she's playing and he'll get what he needs. He just doesn't know what she wants from him. Not yet.

She reaches for his shoulder, and rakes her fingernails along them, tracing them down his arms. The sensation, coupled with the cool air-conditioned breeze from the window unit, is more irritating than relaxing, nearly pushing him over the edge. He's far too high-strung, his nerve-endings attuned to pain, not pleasure. Nothing will feel good until he gets what he needs. He fights the urge to bite down on her lips and watches as she pulls away, sits back on her heels, and reaches into the drawer of the nightstand, grabbing her blade. She runs it across her wrist, and brings the wound to his lips and it's _heaven_. The taste alone is enough to make him hard and he thrusts against her hip as she turns into him, making pleased little noises as he drinks more hungrily. He feels her other hand brush up against his erection, slide through the fabric of his briefs, her thumb teasing the damp tip.

His brain buzzes, little sparks of pleasure gathering, building, and shooting right down his spine with every swallow. Relief floods through his whole body — all the pain, all the tension, dissipate and his mind finally, finally quiets and then stills.

"That's right," says Dean's voice. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

Sam stills, Ruby's blood pooling in his mouth as he strains to hear more of his brother's voice. "Don't fight it," Dean says, and Sam swallows another mouthful of sulfur, copper and power. There's a scream then, but it isn't Dean's and it isn't Ruby's. A woman's high-pitched cry sounds out again, right in the back of Sam's brain. Whoever she is, wherever she is, she's in agony.

And Dean is laughing, happier than Sam’s heard him in the whole last year.

One last swallow, and Sam pulls away, pressing his fingers over Ruby's wound to stem the bleeding.

Dean's malicious joy echoes in Sam's ears and he remembers Bela's words from the day before. "Dean got off the rack," Sam says, the words spilling out of him.

Ruby stares at him, cocks her head thoughtfully. "Bela tell you that?"

Sam nods and asks, "How?" knowing he'll hate the answer.

"He agreed to torture souls," Ruby says, shifting onto her knees. She pulls her arm away from Sam, brings her thumb to her mouth and then runs it over the nearly healed cut by her wrist.

Sam forces his eyes away from her reddened thumb. "Dean wouldn't do that," he says. "Not him." _But I heard him. I heard him make someone scream._

" _Everyone_ breaks in Hell, Sam." And damn if her voice doesn’t sound sad.

“No," Sam protests more loudly. "Demons lie. Bela was lying."

"She wasn't."

A flare of anger surges through Sam. "You knew— you knew this would happen? Why didn't you tell me?"

"What good would it do?" she snaps. "You're already too obsessed with saving him to take care of yourself— to listen to me. If I'd told you, you would've never made it out of that fight in one piece."

Sam takes hold of Ruby's hand, and looks into her eyes. He feels steady again, almost whole, for the first time in days. "I'll listen to you. I promise, I'll do whatever you say. I'll do anything." He means it, too. She's the only way out of this, for him and for Dean. He just has to play along, do every drill, win every fight and then— then he'll be able to save Dean. He doesn't care anymore if he loses himself in the process. There's so little left to lose.

**::: ::: :::**

Ruby doesn’t leave Sam’s side until she knows he’s sleeping, when she hears the deep, slow breathing that only exhaustion and relief can bring. She remains seated on the edge of the bed until the moon rises — all big and bright and white and full — and then stands. She changes into jeans and a t-shirt, pulling on her leather jacket as she slips out, careful not to make a sound, to not wake Sam. Once she hits the sidewalk, it’s all speed and single-minded mission. She hears someone catcall her, a low “hello, doll,” and ignores it. She’s tempted to snap the speaker’s neck, to teach him a lesson, but she doesn’t. Not tonight. She cuts across the neon-lit red-light district where she and Sam live, and heads east, towards the suburban edge of town with the cookie-cutter box houses and manicured front lawns. She crosses a deserted four-lane road that must be backed up with cars during the daytime, ignoring the crosswalk, slicing her way diagonally, and enters a deserted playground.

She beelines for the swings and sits on one of the curved black rubber seats besides a young girl who looks to be about eight or nine years old and dressed in a pale pink party dress with puffed cap sleeves and a white grosgrain ribbon sash. Ruby sways to-and-fro in silence for a long moment, pacing herself in time with the girl, until:

“Push me.”

It’s an order, not a request. The girl’s eyes roll back milky-white.

Ruby stands, goes behind the girl, and gives her a push. She pushes the swing in silence, waiting. The girl doesn’t pump her legs, forcing Ruby to propel her. After a long stillness, Ruby finally speaks. “Isn’t it a bit late for you to be out like this?” A pause. “I mean, what with the kid-suit and all?”

Lilith shrugs. “I like this one best. I get candy.” She pauses, pumps her legs a couple of times. “So how’s Sam coming along? I heard you got him in time-out.”

“He’s got to learn.” She exhales. “Getting there, though. He’ll be ready soon.”

“I like you,” says Lilith in a high, affected little-girl voice and Ruby cringes. Lilith drops the simpering tone. “Level Seven’s all set. Alastair’s on the docket and he’s bringing Dean's soul. Sam just needs to bring the meat.” A few pumps of her legs and the skirt of her pink party dress billows out, bright against the dark sky. “And I get to be the referee. It’s going to be so much fun!” A pause. “Okay. I’m done now.”

At her words, Ruby steps back, watches the Lilith pump her legs, soaring higher. Now that she’s really looking, seeing past the skin and façade, the fact that this tiny blonde thing with the gap in her front teeth is host to one of the oldest and most powerful demons who’d ever existed, one who’d been around since God created Adam is glaringly obvious — at least to her. The girl jumps from the swing, becomes airborne for a couple of seconds, and lands on her feet. She straightens, turns to Ruby, the vacated swing separating them.

Lilith steps closer, catches the swaying swing, and kneels on it. Even though Lilith’s invading her personal space, Ruby doesn’t step back, watching as Lilith lays her small hand on Ruby's arm. Ruby struggles not to flinch. "The wards are holding?” Lilith’s eyes roll white.

Ruby nods.

The little's girl's face scrunches up thoughtfully as Lilith's white eyes look through Ruby's skin. “Barely, though. He's been practicing on you."

"Yes."

"Dangerous." Lilith's face is stern, and Ruby worries she's about to be reprimanded, painfully. Instead, the girl smiles, “But smart. How else can he trust you completely?" The child's small fingers glow briefly as Lilith reinforces the layers upon layers of wards on Ruby's soul. Sam can't see inside her thoughts. If he does, it's all over.

“Well,” Lilith says, eyes flipping blue once again. “I’d better go before they start worrying too much. Past my bedtime and all. And you probably should go too. Before he wakes.” She turns on her heel and flounces up the incline and passes through the gate.

**::: ::: :::**


	4. Chapter 4

_*This chapter contains NSFW art_

Sam is ready to practice again in two days. He's determined to do it right this time, to give everything he has to this. It's the only way to save Dean, and every hour wasted is a hundred and thirty more Dean has to spend in Hell. 

He never asks for more blood from Ruby, but always accepts it when offered, trusting her to give him what he needs.

As much as he’d hated Ruby for making him suffer after he lost the last fight, he understands why she did it now. It wasn't just to teach him a lesson, or to make him understand the consequences of failure — because god knows he’s an expert in consequence; his life has been nothing but one failure after the other. Ruby made him suffer through days of withdrawal to increase his tolerance. His appetite.

So he listens to her, does every drill without complaint, pushing past his limits. And he doesn't get mad when she uses her power to pin him against the wall because he knows she's teaching him. He struggles against her hold until he can move an arm, then the other. He gets a little further every time until, finally, he frees himself and throws her back with the recoil.

She smiles and makes him do it again and again until he can replicate it five times in a row. Then she slices open her wrist and lets him drink as much as he wants.

He heads down to the practice ring later and challenges a Level One to a sparring match. The fight's over in less than three minutes, despite the absence of the cage's magic. The demon tries to throw Sam back with his power twice, but can't. Sam pulls him out of his borrowed skin, and watches him swirl out of the gym, a dark, angry cloud. The body he leaves behind is empty and dead. Sam's nose only trickles a little. He mops it with a tissue, pleased and thirsty and heads back to their hotel room, hoping Ruby will be waiting for him.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam reclines lazily against the headboard of their bed, exhausted from going through the paces of his practice routine but too keyed-up to properly rest. He palms his obviously still sore, not-quite-knitted-up ribs. She’d been careful about that; warning him not to expend too much of his power healing himself, to save it for when he really needs it — for the fights. Traces of crusted maroon still surround one nostril and he’s flushed, sweat-damp, again. She sits on the edge of the bed, hip abutting his waist. He trails his hand along her leg, up her torso, and cups his palm just beneath her breast, thumb caressing the curve of muscle and tissue. “You’re getting better,” she tells him. “Stronger. More controlled.” She pauses. He brushes his thumb against her nipple through her thin shirt. Her meatsuit doesn’t respond. “You’ll be ready for a rematch soon.” She dips her head down, brings her face inches from his. “And you’ll be _awesome_.” Her voice comes out breathy, raw. She pulls back, shrugs off his touch. “But you’re not quite there yet. You still got a ways to go and it’s only gonna get harder from here on out.” She studies him. “How are you feeling? Think you could take a little more?”

Sam nods. “I gotta be stronger.”

“That’s not an answer. That’s why you crashed out in the first place. You can’t afford another setback like this. You have to be able to fight Level _Seven_ , Sam, not pass out after sucking out a One during routine training. We gotta go slow or you’ll get sick.”

“I can take it,” he tells her and there’s a smile, all dimples, that doesn’t reach his eyes. And she sees for a moment how easy it’d been for Jessica Moore to fall for him. Brady’d hardly had to do anything at all. He hesitates, sighs. “Please?” He takes her hand into his, strokes the back of it with his thumb. She feels the calluses there.

“Okay. Just this once,” she exhales, sliding the butterfly knife from where she’d stashed it in her jeans pocket. She lets Sam turn her hand so the inside of her arm is turned up. She snicks out the blade, slashing her wrist as it opens. Instantly blood wells up. Sam looks at her, doesn’t break eye contact as he rolls onto his side, propping himself up with his elbow and closes his mouth over the cut. This time, he doesn’t suckle or slurp, doesn’t try to make the blood flow faster, doesn’t use his teeth to cut into the open flesh to stop it from closing up so quickly. This time is slow and languid, his tongue teases lightly in-and-out of the slit, rough as velvet against her skin. She tilts her head back, moans softly, a heat pooling within her. It has nothing to do with the physical sensations and everything to do with the knowledge that she has finally ensnared Sam Winchester and he needs her like water.

**::: ::: :::**

The first bout of the day is over within the first round. Sam goes on the offensive before the buzzer fades and doesn’t stop. He battles the demon into the corner, grabs it by the throat and presses his thumb up into the soft base of the demon’s throat, cutting off the windpipe. There’s the sense of air being sucked up, of being in a wind tunnel. Ruby roots herself deeper into the meatsuit, fighting the vortex of energy. She feels more than hears the screams of three less-fortunate Level Ones in the first few rows as they’re swept up, incinerated. When the last of the screams die out, she uncurls from her crouch, and looks up into the cage. Sam lets go of the charred husk, lets it fall to the mat with a dull thud. She gives him a smile of approval as the Ref pulls up his arm roughly in victory, rotates him in a slow circle. A chant of _Hunter_ begins and Sam is released from the cage. He heads down the ramp with his chin high and a gleam of pride in his eyes.

_Don’t get too cocky, Dumbo_ , Ruby thinks, rising from her seat to meet him in the bowels of the arena. _You’ve still got two to go_.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam stumbles, catches himself, but it’s too late — he’s grabbed from behind and his face is smashed into the mesh of the cage. There’s a crunch of sorts and blood pours from his nose. He bounces off the cage-fence and falls to the mat. He doesn’t get up right away, shaking his head side-to-side, flicking droplets of red onto the hard surface, as he gets his hands beneath him. The demon lets out a harsh laugh as Sam finally gets his feet under him. He charges at the demon only to be tackled back to the mat. Ruby can see that he’s tiring, that he’s starting to lose control. He smears at his face with the back of his hand, but the flow doesn’t stem.

He lingers too long on all fours, and gets kicked hard in the gut, hard enough to flip him onto his back. The kick leaves a divot in the white-blue light of Sam's soul, but it quickly fills with sickly yellow and black — his tainted blood amplified by hers—already beginning to stitch him back together.

Ruby growls under her breath, frustrated. They can’t lose this fight. There’s far too much at stake. And there’s no reason for him to be fading so quickly so soon — not after the dosages she’d given him. She clenches her hands, wishes for something to punch or break. She’s tempted to strangle the One sitting in front of her just for the shits and giggles of it. If nothing else, it’d make her feel better.

Instead, she kicks the back of the seat in front of her, hard. She dents it and the demon doesn’t even twitch.

When she returns her attention to the match before her, she sees Sam’s somehow gotten the demon against his chest in a chokehold, arm wrapped around his neck. The demon struggles and Sam grips harder, the veins in his forearm bulging into ridges. He pulls harder on his forearm with his opposite hand, further cutting off the demon’s windpipe. Sam catches her eye and gives her a slow wink. They grapple and the demon can’t break Sam’s grasp, not even when he tries to flip Sam over his back. Sam tightens his hold again, and then she sees it… a shadowing in the back of Sam’s hand. The blackness courses upwards, flooding his veins, darkening them in high-definition to his deltoid, up over his shoulder, and webbing down his shoulder blades.

The demon screams, an inhuman howl that has nothing to do with vocal chords, as it lights up, eyes burning like red-hot embers. There’s the smell of char and the demon inside ignites, the dying scream still echoing as Sam suddenly releases the limp body. It lands with a dull thud on the canvas mat. Sam stands in the center of the cage, legs, torso still set in a fighting stance, visibly panting as the blackness in his veins fade. Even from her vantage point she can see the demon is dead, the meatsuit a smoking husk.

She smiles up at Sam.

Sam wavers on his feet, color leeching suddenly from his face. The Ref pulls up his arm in victory and he steadies as the crowd bursts into vicious cheers.

_We got work to do, Butterfly Boy_ , she thinks.

**::: ::: :::**

The gate opens for a third time, and Sam sees his third Level Four opponent. A chill runs down his spine. Not because he's afraid, or because he's tired, or because the fresh dose of power still singing in his veins. It's because he recognizes his challenger.

His ex-college-roommate, Tyson Brady. What's left of him anyway. There's no human soul in there, and looking at him now, at that same sly smile, Sam wonders if there ever was.

Brady tosses Sam a wink before slamming his gloves together as the ref pats him on the shoulder. Sam's fingers twitch with the need for release and his lips curl back, baring bloodstained teeth. Thanks to the contents of the sports bottle Ruby handed him between rounds, he’s freshly turbo-charged. The fight needs to start, preferably now, before he starts clawing out of his own skin.

"Brady," Sam says breathlessly, his ears ringing with rage.

"Long time no see, buddy," Brady says as the buzzer sounds. He goes right into a front kick, catching Sam in the stomach.

Sam's breath whooshes out of him and he staggers back a few steps, glaring up at Brady as he rights himself. "How long?”

"Remember Thanksgiving? When I came back all messed up? Different?" Brady runs in close, and tries for a right hook.

Sam dodges.

"You were so worried about me," Brady continues, snorting. "Nothing to worry about. I did everything I set out to do."

Sam lands a cross on Brady's cheek. A tooth slides out of the demon's mouth along with a steady trickle of blood..

"I knew Jess would work. We needed a lamb — someone to make your little heart get all knotted up and she was perfect wasn't she? Those legs… that tight little ass." Brady kicks at Sam, just barely missing his head.

Sam growls and lunges for Brady again, just missing him with both punches he tries to land. Brady's fast. But speed is irrelevant, if Sam does this the right way.

He reaches inside of himself, calling on the power, and wishes he'd taken more from Ruby, even though he knows she’d brought him to full charge; that he hadn’t even emptied out fully from this morning. Brady's the strongest he's fought so far, and it's going to take everything Sam has to take him down. Sam sends his power flooding down his arm as he reaches his palm straight out, fingers reaching towards Brady.

Brady's eyes widen in surprise as he's immobilized, but he fights, loosening Sam's hold. "Don't think I didn't get a little taste before I burned her."

"What?" Sam asks, because he must've heard wrong. Azazel killed Jess.

" _I_ killed your girlfriend, Sammy," Brady says grinning. "You should've heard her cry when I cut into her. It was beautiful."

Before Sam even knows he's moving, he's behind Brady, with his arm wrapped around the smaller man's jaw. He pulls Brady's head roughly to the side and bites down hard on the carotid, breaking the skin. As fresh blood floods his tongue, Sam expects the ref to blow the whistle or at the very least pull him off and he doesn't care, because Brady is going to _die_ tonight no matter what. And after what Brady just told him, killing him isn't going to be enough. No. Sam's going to make him scream.

But there's no whistle, no buzzer. Nobody stops him. The crowd bursts into cheers, applause thundering. The Abyss requires death, praises it, even, and it doesn't matter how it's accomplished.

Brady's blood is strong, and within seconds, Sam knows he's taken enough to finish the job. It won't be easy, but then he doesn't want it to be easy. He wants to feel every second of this.

It's not that Brady isn't fighting anymore, because he is. It's just that Sam is stronger, and he holds him still from the inside, that oily blackness writhing in his hold, but unable to break free. He squeezes it tighter as he tightens his arm around Brady's neck and twists. With one sharp turn, the body's spine cracks and Sam pushes on the demon inside, compressing it more and more until it starts to suffocate. He wills it to burn, remembering the way Jess looked pinned above him while the fire ate at her flesh. He can almost taste the ash.

And now Brady screams. His true voice echoes through the arena loud enough to shatter one of the halide lights above them.

Sam's nearly drained again, the effort of hurting Brady making it harder to kill him, but he refuses to let up. He pushes harder and harder, forcing everything he has at the demon, until he can feel Brady's soul start to flicker with golden sparks. Out of the corner of his eyes, Sam sees a black web form on the back of his own hands, running up his arms towards his shoulders — like his veins are charring from the inside. Wetness spills from his nose, and his head pounds so horribly he can barely see, but he doesn't need to see to kill.

In his hold, Brady begins to glow as the demon inside burns, still screaming even though the chokehold Sam’s got on his throat is too tight to allow for sound.

Pure rage fuels Sam's power until finally, the demon he'd known as Brady dies. Sam lets the empty shell fall to the floor as the audience erupts into frenzy. They're cheering him on, chants of _Hunter_ , growing louder and louder as the referee lifts his arm, making his victory official. Level Five is next, Sam thinks, as his vision begins to cloud from exhaustion. He's so thirsty.

The referee turns him to face the other side of the audience, brushing Sam's side, and before he can stop himself, Sam bites down weakly on the referee's skinny arm. He screams, and Sam doesn't even break the skin before Ruby's pulling him off, laughing.

"Come on, Butterfly," she says, still grinning. It’s the happiest, proudest he’s ever seen her and it makes something inside his chest go warm with satisfaction, like maybe he can do this and won’t be such a failure after all. She pulls him around, kisses him. "I'll give you everything you need."

A low booming voice cheers as Sam follows Ruby to the tunnel leading to the subterranean levels and locker rooms. He stops and looks over his shoulder to find Lars grinning down at them from the fourth row back, right over the tunnel entrance.

Sam takes a few steps until he's standing just under the old man. The rest of the audience is already filtering out, and soon Lars is by himself.

Ruby glances from Sam to Lars and back. Her smile slips slightly as she squeezes Sam's arm. "I'll meet you back at the room," she says. “I won’t be long.”

Eyes still focused on the Scandinavian, Sam nods. "I made it through Level Four," Sam says. "You owe me a name."

Lars grins down at him, teeth yellow in the arena lights. "If I recall, I said _maybe_. I don’t owe you anything." He stands and leans forward over the railing. He takes out a box of cigarettes, tamps the bottom against his palm. “But seeing how you got further than even the bookies guessed, I’ll give it to you.” He smiles. "The only one who has ever made it through all seven levels was Azazel."

The name sets Sam's heart racing and it's all he can do to keep his voice steady. "Azazel?"

Lars fixes him with a stare. “How else was he able to build that army, you think?” He exhales, studies his nails. "Rumor has it that your very own brother killed him," Lars says. "And where is your brother now, I wonder?"

Sam's anger flares higher and he envisions his fingers wrapping around the old man's throat. He could crush his windpipe. It'd be easy.

Lars straightens, but there's no fear in his eyes. It takes a beat for Sam's thoughts to filter through to the other, more rational part of his brain and when they do, he's disgusted with himself. Killing demons is one thing, killing the humans they're occupying is awful but inevitable in this place. He's avoided it so far only because the demons he's been up against had already killed their hosts. But killing a plain old human, just because he hit a nerve, is… monstrous. He won’t cross that line.

"My brother's in Hell. He's being torn apart…" _because of me_ ,"But I'm going to get him out. I'm going to win."

"Of course you are." The old man says quietly. "All kings do what they must." He turns his back on Sam and makes his way down the aisle.

**::: ::: :::**

Ruby's been gone for hours. She’d said she'd be right back with more but she's still gone and he is so thirsty. He's sweat through his shirt but can't summon enough energy to sit up and strip out of it.

He can feel his pulse pounding through his veins and his hands, arms, cramp painfully. They're hungry; every cell in him searching for even a drop of Ruby's sweet blood, but it's gone. He burned through it all and he feels so hollow inside.

Sam's temperature spikes again as pain shoots through his legs and then crawls up his middle, one tiny, agonizing piton at a time like spiders with razor blades for legs. "Ruby..." he moans, longing for the sound of their hotel door. The scent of her still lingers on the sheets, driving him mad.

The skin on his face prickles and as he reaches to scratch at his skin he flinches at the heat. There's something falling down on him from above, white like snow but hot. Ash. The room smells like smoke and when he looks up at the ceiling he sees Jessica burning. She's not screaming, she's not even scared; she just looks down at him sadly.

"Jess," he moans. "I'm so—" he coughs as he inhales smoke. "I'm sorry."

Her skin crackles and turns black. She smiles wide, teeth gleaming as her flesh begins to fall off her jawbone. "No you're not,” she says.

Sam wants to protest but another coughing fit hits him. He curls into himself as the pain in his body flares back to life. A chunk of charred flesh lands on the sheet right next to his face — Jess's hand, gnarled, blackened bone. He scrambles away from it and falls off the bed, landing painfully on his elbow.

There's a stain on the carpet near him, and with the last of his energy, he digs his fingertips into the worn, matted tufts of fabric and tries to drag himself towards it.

**::: ::: :::**

When he comes to again, Sam smells blood. He can smell it in the air even though his nose is pressed into the filthy carpet of their hotel room floor. It seeps into his dreams and, at first, he's sure he's just imagining it, so desperate for a taste that he's having olfactory hallucinations.

But when he opens his eyes, Ruby's kneeling next to him, concern on her face and a tiny bead of red on her thumb, like she'd pricked it with a pin.

"There you are," she says, smiling. She holds her thumb closer to him and he lifts his head enough to suck the bead of red onto his tongue, the taste making him whimper. "We have company."

Sam sits up quickly despite his headache and sudden vertigo. Two others stand just outside the open door, like they're waiting for an invitation. A woman and a man, both inhabited by demons. Sam can smell them, and the hungry ache in his gut grows. The woman — small with a blond pixie-cut — clasps her hands over her mouth and hops in excitement. "It's really him!" The man next to her grins wide, and runs his fingers along the collar of his blue button-down shirt.

"Fans of yours," Ruby says. "They wanted to help us celebrate. I said they could, as long as they shared."

Sam looks up at her in confusion.

"I don't have enough in my veins," Ruby elaborates in a whisper. "Not for what you need. But they do."

"Come in," Sam says, holding on to the edge of the bed for leverage as he pushes himself to standing. He's dizzy, and his stomach's growling, but he stays upright as the demons file into the room, looking at him in awe — like he's some kind of hero.

"Hunter," the blonde says, eyes alight with admiration as she walks close to him. "You're even taller in person." She reaches a finger out and trails it up Sam's forearm. "Bigger too."

Ruby steps up next to her and hands her the small butterfly knife she favors. "Don't make it too wide, but go nice and deep."

The blonde smirks as she shrugs out of her cardigan, revealing a spaghetti-strap tank top. Then she takes the offered blade and flips it open.

Sam can't focus on anything but the blade as it shines in the dingy lights of the hotel room. The tip dips straight into her skin and a bead of red wells up as she starts to trace just above her collarbone. Sam lunges at her before she's pulled the knife all the way out, unable to hold back another second, and grabs her wrist, pulling the knife out and away. She tilts her head to the side, baring her bleeding neck. He grips her more tightly, mouth latching onto the cut.

The blood tastes a lot like Ruby's, but the skin is different: softer, with hints of sandalwood and citrus from some kind of shampoo or lotion. After a while though, all he can taste is copper and sulfur. The power thrums through him, filling his mind with warmth and an all-consuming golden glow. He swallows and swallows, blood spilling down the girl’s front, staining the top of her camisole when he pulls away for air, and she doesn't stop him, doesn't even try.

Through a pastel haze of pleasure, Sam feels the woman's arms wrap around his back, or try to, but he's too broad. She can't bring her hands together until she slides them down to his waist, and then lower.

Sam could care less, as long as the blood keeps flowing. He lifts her up as they move to the bed so he can get a better angle, lies down with her on top of him. Her moans get louder and so does his hunger. He starts rutting against her, wishing the blood would flow faster and then it _does_.

His eyes fly open in surprise and he sees Ruby grinning at him slyly from the opposite corner of the bed. Without even asking, he knows she's done something to speed up the emptying of the demon's veins. He sees the smudge of charcoal on her fingers, sees the edges of marks on the back of the demon he's drinking from.

The rush of power blows Sam's senses wide open, until he can hear and see and smell everything. There's so much raw energy inside him that his vision starts to bleed white, the air itself charging with heat. The demon moans under his teeth, but Sam turns his focus inwards, focuses on that deep void in the back of his mind — the place where sometimes, if he listens closely, he can hear Dean.

There's nothing at first, not even a whisper. Then he hears a sound as familiar as a lullaby: the soft hiss of a blade against a leather strop. It might not be Dean's voice, but the sound is unmistakably his. And Sam wants to hear him — needs to. It's why he can't stop, why he'll swallow down every drop of damnation until he's won every match and Dean is free.

Minutes later, he's drained the small demon dry, and pries her off of him, laying her down on the mattress. She looks dazed, but smiles up at him as the wound on her neck closes. The sheets smudge with charcoal when she rolls onto her side, and Sam can see the remnants of Ruby's work — a script he's never seen, jagged lines and curves. The demon blinks, her eyes solid black, and reaches for her discarded cardigan, slipping her arms through the sleeves and buttoning it to her throat.

The man comes to Sam next. He's twenty at most, with dark hair and soft brown eyes that flip red for a beat as he straddles Sam's lap. The demon doesn’t say anything as he unbuttons his shirt, and slides it off his shoulders and tilts his head to the side, granting access to the thickest veins. Sam makes a narrow cut just over the carotid first, and drinks for what seems like hours. He takes his time, drinking from everywhere and anywhere he wants, until he feels bloated with power.

This blood is different, it even tastes different — and where Ruby's makes him feel strong and whole, this makes him feel like he's swallowing down lightning, and if he wanted to he could call down one hell of a storm. Ruby starts laughing and Sam can't understand why until he looks up and sees their couch sliding slowly up the wall. The small coffee table is already on the ceiling. Telekinesis was never his strong suit, but Sam knows this is his doing, and suddenly he's laughing too. He's not even doing it on purpose; it's just energy bleed.

"You deserve this," Ruby says, smiling down on Sam as the male demon finally disengages, climbing off Sam’s thighs. The dim light behind her looks like a halo tinted red by their wallpaper. "And more."

The younger man traces his forefinger along the closing gap in his throat and gathers the remaining droplets. He raises his finger to his mouth and then touches Sam’s, smearing pink-tinged saliva along his chapped lower lip.

"Scram," Ruby tells him over her shoulder.

Eyes still locked on Sam, the demon says, “Thank you,” voice measured and polite. He slips his shirt back on, but doesn't bother buttoning it, turns to his friend and the two of them leave without another word.

The blonde closes the door behind her with a giggle. He sees little sparks of light flicker in his vision and Sam's not sure if it's just his eyes playing tricks on him, or if he's seeing the echo of her laugh.

Sam's eyes are still on the door when Ruby's fingers slides down his stomach and pauses at the waistband of his pants. Her fingers are warm and soft, and she moves them gently as she rucks up his shirt with her other hand, bringing her mouth down to just below his belly button as she undoes the button, zipper. She nips the skin there and kisses her way to his hips, hands pulling denim and cotton down to his knees, exposing him. It's more ticklish than pleasant, but everything in his head is all stuck together and he wants more and he wants her to stop but he doesn't know in which order.

The furniture's still stuck on the ceiling and he feels like if he doesn't do something soon, he'll float right up to join it.

“Ruby,” he moans, too incoherent to even know what he wants.

She’s fucking with him and he can't get it together enough to do a damn thing about it. Tiny bursts of neon light pop behind his closed eyelids as she rocks back and forth, the rough material of her jeans scraping across his skin. Sam cries out as he clutches at the bed sheet with his fingers, too uncoordinated to do anything more. At a particularly insistent thrust of Ruby's hips, his eyes fly open, the pressure against his cock maddening.

She smirks at him when she sees him looking, leans back and pulls off her shirt, undoes her bra, arching her back while she does. He reaches for her, but she moves just out of reach, pulling off her jeans before she straddles him again.

It's worse now; the rasp of denim replaced by her damp softness resting on him and he shuts his eyes, trying to limit the sensory overload. The feel of her heat rubbing against him is driving him out of his mind. He can smell her — the sweat on her skin and the green apple scent of her shampoo and, underneath it all, her blood. He wants to push inside of her, but he feels too raw, every movement of hers a mix of too much and not enough. It’s when he forces his eyes open and looks at her — _really_ looks at her — that he understands why.

He can see little flickers of her real form underneath the human skin, and where their skin touches, she's pressed into him, her mottled soul drawn to his. He feels more than her skin, he feels _her_ , and she's burning.

"I see you," he says.

Ruby sits back, resting on his thighs and smirks at him. "What do you see?"

The darkness inside of her coils and twists, a spiraling cloud made up of centuries of memories, and pain too great to be human. Sam's mesmerized by her. He sees more than just the blackness of a demon-soul, sees the nuances behind it — everything that makes her _Ruby_. She slides further down his legs, keeping her eyes locked on his as she lowers her head and runs her tongue up the side of his erect cock. Sam gasps as she traces her hand along his inner thigh, that same fire in her touch burning a trail across his skin. He can almost see the flames.

"You— you're—" Her touch is too much and he reaches down to grab her hands, to stop the maddening tickle of her fingertips and the pressure of her tongue against his slit.

But she stops him. Slams both his arms back on the bed with nothing more than her will, pins him there helpless. He knows he's stronger than her _knows it_ but he can't focus. Trying to hold a thought in his head long enough to act on it is nearly impossible and he winces at the sharp prickles of energy running through his veins.

She gives him a scolding look and closes her mouth over his cock.

Sam arches his back, struggling, trying to think clearly, trying to grab hold of Ruby, but there's _so much_ power inside of him it's like trying to thread a needle with a flamethrower. He lashes out, frustrated, smashing the still floating nightstand against the ceiling. It shatters, fractures under his gaze, but still hangs in the air, jagged splinters forming a sloppy star that thins out as it drifts apart.

Ruby's mouth works its way up and down his cock and it's too much and if only he could let go, if he could give in to the release she's offering, he knows he'd feel better. But he's too big for his body, too many nerves and not enough skin and he can't come down. Can't relax. Desperate, he focuses again on his pinned arms, tries to move them off the bed. The couch thumps against the ceiling as he tries and fails and tries and fails again, but then his right wrist leaves the mattress. It’s a fraction of an inch at most, but it's enough. It's that split second of control, of triumph, that sends him over the edge, and he cries out as he spills his release into Ruby.

Sam exhales slowly, lifting his arms off the mattress as Ruby's teeth graze the skin along his shaft. His body is his own again, and his power settling back into his cells, finally his to command. He grabs Ruby by the shoulders and lifts her up, dragging her body along his length. He settles her on top of him again, pushes her chest up, hands just under the swell of her breasts, and watches as the black cloud inside of her shifts, reaching long tendrils down her arms and legs, coalescing in her groin as she rubs herself against him.

"You're smoke on the inside" he says, as he moves one of his hands behind her head, tangles his fingers in her long hair, and brings their mouths together in a kiss. "Just like all the others."

"Not exactly like all the others," she says.

"Exactly like them," Sam says, running his hand down her arm. "I could pull you, right now," he says, bucking up against her, as his arousal grows again. There's no more pain where she touches him, just pinpricks of pleasure in his fingertips as he redirects her, pulls her energy where he wants it to be. Demons don't feel the way humans do. They wear the bodies they possess like armor, only pushing into extremities when they want to — to feel, taste, or smell. Ruby’d explained it to him once: _Feeling things is overrated. More trouble than it's worth._ But he _wants_ her to feel this. Wants her _here_ , in every cell of hers he touches.

She gasps as he pulls more of her energy outward, forcing it into her nipples, as he trails his fingertips over them.

"I could do… anything," Sam says. He looks up at the ceiling idly, at the still floating fragments of the nightstand, the couch, and everything else he'd sent upwards — an old wooden chair and a broken lamp. Sam narrows his eyes and brings them all crashing down to the floor.

"Good thing the manager's one of ours," Ruby mutters.

It feels good; the little flicker of exertion, and Sam smiles because that's all it’d taken — barely any effort at all. "I'm so fucking strong, Ruby."

"Yeah?" She asks, her back arching as he rubs against her harder. "Prove it."

He looks at her, bemused. "How? By killing you?" His pulse speeds up at the thought of killing. And he’s sure he could kill a thousand Bradys with ease this very moment. "I could do it. Right now. Not a thing you can do to stop me."

"You could," she says, gyrating her hips more forcefully. "But then who would take care of you?" Sam grabs her ass and pushes her down onto him harder.

He moves his hand to her waist, and uses his knee to flip her over, pinning her underneath him. "Don't need anybody to take care of me."

"Really?" she bites down hard on her lips, until red pearls up.

Sam leans down, and kisses her, sucking down the coppery taste. He laughs, more a quiet rumble in his chest than a sound of pleasure, before answering. "It doesn't have to be your blood. I had plenty of volunteers tonight. Eager to please."

"Yeah. And how many of them would clean you up when you get sick? Or help you walk to the bathroom when you're too high to make it there yourself?"

In response, Sam brings his face down between her legs, parts her folds, and runs his tongue over her clit. He keeps his hands on her spread thighs; forcing her soul to stay down where he is, where his tongue is playing with her. He keeps her whole focus there until she pulls in a gasping breath and begins to writhe. But pleasure isn't enough for her; it never is.

So he digs his mind into her, lets flickers of power grow into flames that bore into her soul, reminding her just what he can do — what she’d taught him to do. Her hissing breaths turn to cries and the flesh and bone inside of her begins to glow with just the slightest hint of gold as Sam brings her as close to the edge of non-existence as he can without snuffing her out for good.

Her thighs tense, quivering beneath his hands, until she comes apart, grabbing at his hair, at the mattress, at anything she can, his name a curse.

Sam lets go of her soul, and grabs onto her waist pulling her up into his arms. He pushes into her, and she clenches tightly around him. As he cries out, for just a second, he thinks he can see little flickers of bright white light dancing inside of Ruby's black smoke.  


[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/blood_and_pie/50235106/58495/58495_original.jpg)

**::: ::: :::**

Little bolts of lightning dance inside her borrowed skin and her mind feels like it's fraying. Ruby is seconds away from losing cohesion when the power strangling her cuts off completely. Sam stills and pulses into her with a drawn-out gasp.

She struggles to piece herself back together as Sam pulls out, painfully slow, and rolls to lie besides her. She can hear his breath sawing slightly as she moves within her meatsuit. She aches everywhere in a way she hasn’t experienced since she’d been human. Her groin feels hot and swollen, but despite the bruised throbbing, she feels euphoric. Orgasms always leave her feeling like this, like she's separating from her vessel, spreading out into the ether, her body little more than an anchor. They even felt like this when she was still alive. _The closest a human can ever get to feeling like a demon,_ she muses, smiling to herself.

Ruby shifts her hips and rocks against Sam's sweat-slick thigh. He moans with exhaustion but Ruby could care less. She strokes Sam until he stiffens, curls to full arousal once again, and straddles him. He grunts unhappily, bucks his hips as she ruts herself up and down his cock. She pauses, and digs a sharp nail into the pebbled flesh of her breast until a bead of red shows. Sam's mouth closes around her areola and suckles as she slips up and around him, pulling his hard warmth back inside. She lowers herself slowly, a mewl rising unbidden from her throat.

Sam's teeth tug on her nipple as he lets go of her, the tiny wound she'd made already healed. She braces herself, holding her body up with one arm, fingers gripping Sam’s bicep as she reaches down to Sam’s thigh. She palms the soft flesh of the inside of his leg and Sam instinctively lowers it, pressing the outside of his knee to the mattress, opening himself further. She rakes her fingernails along his thigh, scraping it close to his inguinal and Sam flinches, tightens, arching slightly. His power curls itself back around her, pulling her deep into her skin. Her clit aches as she moves up and down him, long and slow and steady, revenge for laying her so raw. He’s becoming too cocky, too confident, and it doesn’t suit him.

Keeping the rhythm going, she leans down and nips Sam's neck. His power loosens its hold on her for a fraction of a second as his own pleasure spikes. She moves her mouth closer to his ear and whispers, "You're strong Sam. And I'm gonna make you so much stronger. Strong enough to kill Lilith, strong enough to make it _hurt_."

He comes with a shout, emptying dry, filling her with heat, and she screams in concert as the room fills with Sam's power — charging the air to a painful pitch. Her back arches, nether regions clenching hard in orgasm as Sam suddenly releases her soul, the sensation of ricocheting back into herself again overwhelming. She pushes herself up, slow, panting for a long moment, her hair shielding her expression from Sam as she composes herself.

When she finally eases off of him, maneuvering herself so she is lying beside him instead of sitting on his lap, Sam’s cock is flaccid and weeping and there’s a wide soaked patch on the fitted sheet beneath him. She can still feel the slickness inside her, the slow slide as it drips along the inside of her legs. She smiles, messily shoving her hair from her eyes with her fingers. Her vessel is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and the hot ache inside her is already gone. Sam doesn’t move, eyes still closed, chest still rising and falling in shallow pants.

After a few seconds, Sam opens his eyes, blinks at her through exhausted, heavy lids, already slipping into postcoital sleep. He breathes heavily and closes his eyes again. “Yeah,” she whispers, knowing that he’s out for the count. “You’ve earned it. Keep flapping those wings, Butterfly. There’s already a tsunami in Asia and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

**::: ::: :::**


	5. Chapter 5

The first one falls so easily, Sam almost laughs. He's giddy with power, looks at the husk of the Level Five being dragged away and then up at the audience — still frenzied, reveling in his triumph. The first four rows are empty now, demons far too wary of his power to sit so close to the cage. They'd all seen what happened to the referee during the last fight — snuffed out by nothing more than a stray hit of Sam's power — and they don't want to be next. That doesn't make them any less eager to see Sam though. From what Ruby's told him, there are hundreds more watching a floor away in the bar on giant monitors. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he can hear their voices mix with those of the ones here.

Ruby comes by to offer him a kiss and a drink from his water bottle. He knows she’s spiked it with crossroad-demon's blood, can smell it through the plastic, but he doesn't need any more. Not yet.

Sam scans the audience, brow furrowing,"None of these demons have humans in them."

"Of course not," Ruby says, pushing him away. "That'd be against the rules."

"So what happened to all their souls?"

"Price of admission," she shrugs.

Sam makes a disgusted noise and turns away from her. His pragmatic brain argues that despite the loss of life, it's better that the humans aren't still trapped in their own bodies, bearing witness to all of this. He of all people should know.

The new ref comes in flanked by two other demons wheeling in a large Plexiglas box covered in warding sigils. Sam guffaws at the sight, and the audience titters behind him. The ref looks at him warily and opens the door to the box, stepping in gingerly as the two other demons leave the cage, just as Sam's next challenge enters.

The second Level Five opponent is wearing a giant of a man, and literally growls when the buzzer sounds, in what Sam supposes is supposed to be an intimidating fashion. He stalks towards Sam, and holds up his ham-like fists, delivering a punch that's way too slow, and staggering forward when he hits nothing but air.

Sam watches him stumble around for a few more minutes before he gets bored, and then grabs him by the shoulder and rams his knee into the demon's face. He staggers back, dazed, blood pouring from his vessel’s nose and Sam flicks his fingers, sending his opponent hurtling against the fence. The demon’s eyes bleed black in shock and he struggles to free himself, increasingly frustrated at his inability to do so. This one's not used to losing.

Sam lets him fall and recover, waits for him to charge and then closes his fingers into a fist, bringing the demon to his knees as he squeezes its soul. The large man screams horrifically as the demon inside of him burns out of existence. The empty meat suit falls face first onto the mat and Sam raises his arms to the air before the Ref even announces his win. The audience is already chanting his name, and their eyes are full of more than bloodlust. He sees adoration there, the beginnings of worship. And it's intoxicating.

This time Ruby won't take no for an answer, and shoves the bottle into his hand. "They save the hardest for last, Sam, trust me. She's got something to prove."

"She?" Sam says, wondering if Bela’d somehow crawled back out from whatever corner of Hell he’d sent her and got an upgrade in the process. "Who?"

"Somebody who's seen inside you," Ruby says before dropping back off the ledge that surrounds the perimeter of the cage. She takes her seat in the fifth row, and Sam doesn't miss the way the demons she passes eye her with open jealousy. Maybe he'll tell her to invite some others to the afterparty tonight.

The cage door opens, and his third opponent walks in. She's small and dark-haired, dressed in tight black spandex pants and a tank top and the second she winks at him, he knows her.

"Meg."

He's going to look forward to this.

"Pretty proud of yourself, huh?" she says, keeping her distance.

Sam can feel the charge in the air as she coils her power in tight. She's winding up for something big, but he's not worried. Whatever it is, he can handle it. With the extra boost from the bottle and all the power still left from before he feels like he could go through ten more opponents without tiring.

He flicks his fingers towards Meg, willing her towards the fence, and she flinches, but doesn't budge.

"I'm not your average bear, Sammy." She smirks and pushes both of her arms straight out, opening her hands.

Sam slams straight back against the fence, the air knocked out of him. She takes a few steps closer and smiles at him, teeth white against her dark lipstick. Sam tries to regroup, focusing his energy inward and measures how much effort it will take to break free. She's a lot stronger than he thought.

"Mmm-hm. I'm right on the border of Five and Six. If you do, by some miracle, make it through this…" She laughs before continuing, "…they've got such a great pick for your Level Six fight already, I'm not even insulted." She folds her hands into fists and Sam can feel his lungs begin to compress, but he fights back, focusing on blocking her. It works; he can breathe again and her hold on him falters then fails completely. He falls to the mat, catches himself with his hands and rises to his feet, staring her down.

"Damn, you _did_ get buff," she says. "Tell you what. I'll give you one hit for free, just because I want to see what you can do." She stretches her arms out wide and tilts her head back, closing her eyes.

Sam can feel his ears flush at the taunt and he resists the urge to hit her with all his power, because that's what she wants. She's goading him. Instead, he focuses on a spot on the cage floor right in front of Meg and begins opening a portal to Hell meant just for her soul.

Usually that's the last thing he does after pulling a demon. It barely requires any effort once the soul is out, because demons' souls are naturally pulled towards hell when they're not in a host. He'd figured that part out early on. Creating the portal before he's pulled Meg is significantly harder, but it's worth the effort. The audience jeers, thinking he's going to send her back without a kill, but he raises his arm up, silencing them somewhat.

Meg backs away from the portal, eyeing it warily. "Not playing fair, Winchester. You send me back; you lose this round. You have to start all over. You know that, right?"

"I know. I just want you to remember what your options are."

She scoffs. "Is that supposed to scare me?" She steps around the portal carefully and positions herself a few feet away. "You know how many centuries I spent down there? What I _did_ down there?" Her eyes brighten and she adds. "I had the same teacher as Dean. We were classmates. Want to know what Dean's learning?"

"No." Sam says, and it's the truth. Whatever they say about his brother, it won't matter soon, because soon Dean will be free and then he can forget whatever happened in Hell. Sam just has to do what he set out to do. He has to win.

The pull of Hell takes its toll on Meg and Sam can see her hold on her borrowed skin start to weaken. Sam reaches his hand out, ready to burn her to ash with his power.

Meg brings her fingers to her lips and whistles loudly. There's a flicker-flash by the portal and then a deep growling noise, joined by a second, both of them coming from near Meg. "Doors go both ways Sam." She reaches a hand down, patting the air by her right hip.

But Sam recognizes that sound. He heard it the night Hell took Dean from him. "Hellhounds." His voice comes out strangled.

"Yup. And these two pups are special." Meg's grin widens. "These boys dragged your brother downstairs." She steps forward. "Lilith told me all about it. About how she made you watch — how you screamed. Cried like a baby. You watched them tear Dean apart. Couldn't do a damn thing to save your brother then, what makes you think you can save him now?"

Sam's anger is ever-present, but in that moment it doubles — again and again and again — becoming monstrous in size until it's an ocean and he can barely see or hear anything past Meg and the two distorted patches of space next to her. He grabs a hold of her with his mind, and drags her forward, shoving her head down towards the portal.

She screams and the hounds growl in warning. The air around Sam shifts and he feels heavy, invisible weight crashes into him. It's hard to think through his rage, but there's a flicker of concern for his own life as Sam feels the sheer strength of the hounds topple him onto his back.

He lets go of Meg, and pushes his hands into the hounds' invisible flesh. It feels like it's charred and flaking off where he touches it, and he imagines what they look like, thinks he can almost see them — big as bears, sharp yellow teeth and eyes as red as a crossroads demon.

Then he remembers whose blood he's been drinking along with Ruby's.

He closes his eyes, digs his fingers into their throats, his mind into their souls, and hears them start to whimper. "Heel," he says, his voice barely a whisper, and the dogs still.

He lets go of them and pushes himself to his feet.

Meg looks at him, stunned and pale.

Sam's lips curl as he says, "Sic her." He can feel the hounds charge at her like they're an extension of his own will, because in that moment they are.

Meg opens her mouth wide, screaming soundlessly as she leaves her host body, a huge black cloud shooting up towards the domed ceiling of the arena. But the hounds are faster than she is, and they're not governed by the gravity of this world. They chase her down, grab onto her essence and leap straight down into the still-open portal, dragging her with them. The glowing hole slams shut behind them leaving a perfect circle of burning embers behind on the mat.

Sam walks up to the circle and spits into the middle before lifting his eyes up to look for the referee. The audience has fallen dead silent, but every pair of eyes is on him — black, red, and white.

"The opponent has forfeited. Winner: The Hunter!" the Ref bellows as he steps out of the shielded box he's been standing in.

The audience cheers wildly and Sam raises his arms, drinking in their praise.

**::: ::: :::**

Ruby brings five guests to Sam's afterparty. Three of them are red-eyed and they cluster around Sam on the couch, praising his victory, cooing about his skills. He's drinking champagne straight from the bottle, and blood from any vein that's open. "Anyone who can bring Hellhounds to heel can bring me to bed," says the demon in the redhead on Sam's right. He stops drinking from her arm long enough to laugh, loud and unburdened.

He hasn't laughed like that since Dean died. And he's never laughed like that for Ruby.

The demon to Sam's left, in a male model meatsuit grabs a fresh bottle of champagne from the ice-bucket nearby and pops the cork, sending it flying across the room. Ruby sidesteps its trajectory, catching it in her bare hand, and glares. Sam sees her expression and starts honest-to-Lucifer giggling before taking another swig of the champagne. He burps as the bubbles hit his nose. The third demon by the couch stands up from where she'd been sitting on the floor and straddles Sam, pushing long black hair aside to give Sam access to her carotid.

 _They're spoiling him_ , Ruby thinks, _trying to get on the winning side before the shit hits the fan._ A pleasure-drunk moan from Sam sends ripples through the air and small, unanchored items float to the ceiling — the ice-bucket, a leather jacket and a set of keys, that jingle as they hover past Ruby's field of vision. She bats at them, irritated and heads for the bed. _At least it’s not furniture._ Two other demons are busy rutting against each other, but there's enough room for Ruby to lie down next to them. She grabs one of the magazines on the nightstand and starts to read about global warming.

The demons next to Ruby pause when they notice her next to them. The larger man on top eyes Ruby and then looks over to Sam. "Why aren't you over there?"

Ruby scoffs. "Why should I be?"

"Rumor has it, he's gunning for Lilith," says the other demon, turning to Ruby. His brown eyes flood with black as he brings his hand down to his tight, leather pants, pushing them down off his hips. "He's our next king, isn't he?"

 _If this is what his fans think, then it's no wonder The Hunter's grown so popular,_ Ruby thinks. _And Sam's buying it hook, line and sinker._ She gives them a steady look. "Think he's got a chance?"

The larger demon rumbles a laugh as he strips off his own undershirt. "I think Lilith's already pissing herself."

"She should be," says the other, younger demon. There's a strange eagerness in his voice.

"Go tell him," Ruby says, refocusing on her magazine. "Should score you some points."

"Maybe I will," the smaller demon says. He turns back to his partner. "Maybe we both will. Later." They move against each other again, making the mattress squeak.

Ruby shifts her position to get a better look at the couch. But Sam's not on the couch anymore. He's hovering two feet above it, along with the redhead, who’s got her legs wrapped around his waist. The other two crossroads demons have spread out on the couch below them. Sam lifts his stained mouth away from the redhead’s neck and meets Ruby's eyes. His brow furrows and his drunken gaze sober in confusion as he takes in the angle of his perspective. Another, groggy wave of energy floods the room and everything floating crashes to the ground, including Sam and the demon on top of him. They fall, land on the already occupied couch. Angry shouts and a loud crunch follow as Sam and the redhead are pushed off the loveseat. They collide with the newly replaced coffee table, which gives way under their combined weight.

The redhead gets up, cheeks flushed and steps over Sam, grabs her leather jacket from the floor and heads out the door. The two demons on the couch resume their activities.

Ruby slaps her magazine down on the bed and gets up, walking to the wreckage on the floor. The demons on the couch have stripped each other’s clothes off and their noises are sloppy. _They should try that with a soul riding shotgun,_ Ruby notes idly. _And if they did, would that qualify as a ménage-a-quatre?_

Sam's still laughing, his eyes black with flecks of gold around the edges. She puts her hand on her hip and looks down at him, disappointed. _Hell of a king. Pun intended._

Sam pushes himself up on his elbows and blinks up at her. "Come here."

"Why?" she asks.

Sam slides his hand down to his waistband and starts unbuttoning his jeans. "Because I—" He slides his fingers lower, struggles with the small metal grip, pulls down the zipper. He gasps as the tight prison gives way. "I want you to."

Ruby's annoyance gives way to amusement as she watches him — uncoordinated long fingers trying to touch himself through the loosened waist without tugging down his cotton briefs, which have grown way too tight. She sits down next to him with a sigh, and then stretches out on her stomach, resting her chin on his shoulder. She reaches out with her hand, cradles his temple, fingers stroking his unwashed, limp hair.

He turns his face away from her, pressing his cheek against her forearm. His hot, coppery breath puffs against the pale flesh in the crook of her elbow, too rapid and too shallow. He scrunches his eyes shut, brow furrowing and bucks his hips up, grabbing hold of her wrist. He tries to pull her hand down towards his crotch, but he's too out of it and she resists him easily.

“Please,” he says, his voice breathless and wrecked. He tenses for a long moment, his legs pulling up, spreading apart and coming together again as though he can’t make up his mind which position aches the least. " _Please._ "

She watches his discomfort, his building anxiety, and feels a heat gathering, growing in her chest, her groin. She feels almost alive. She watches his erection swell further beneath the cotton, not daring to offer her touch. Not just yet. Sam lets out a desperate, reined-in moan but he doesn’t reach down, doesn’t press his palm against the confined flesh. She isn’t sure why he doesn’t, but the thought of him laid out and denying himself makes her smile.

She entwines her fingers with his, guiding his arm out to his side. The movement elicits a sharp pant from Sam but his eyes don’t leave hers, trusting that she’s going to make it good for him, that she’s going to grant him relief from the awfulness building inside him. She can feel his palm dampen, the slight tremble in his fingers as he grips her hands more tightly. Swinging one leg over his hips, as she would a horse, she straddles him. Sam closes his eyes, a flickering, passing grimace contorting his expression as she pushes against him. Not letting go of his hands, she stretches out against his body, kisses his lips. She feels his curling member press against her pelvic bone, his tight gasps as it’s caught between their bodies, the tremor coursing through his arms. She lets go of his hands as she deepens the kiss, slipping her tongue through the gap between his teeth, and Sam moans.

Ruby slides her hand between them, down his stomach and into the waistband of his briefs. Sam gasps and bucks into her, overeager and then winces, eyes flying open. He shoves at her, a wholly different urgent need spurring him on.

"What's wrong," she asks with a grin, pushing her other hand down on his stomach, she spreads her smile wider as she slides it lower along his heated skin, presses at his overfull bladder.

Sam groans and shoves her harder. She lets him go this time, unable to suppress a laugh when he staggers coltishly to his legs. Ruby gets up just in time to stop him from faceplanting on the carpet and holds him steady, looping his long arm around her shoulder, offering her small frame as a crutch.

“I gotta…” Sam slurs. “I gotta…” He sounds drunk and she laughs again. The sound makes him smile, all goofy and lopsided. His expression grows frantic and he tries to pull from her, lurching in the direction of the bathroom. His feet tangle and she laughs as she takes his weight across her shoulders before he can fall and guides him there.

**::: ::: :::**

Ruby helps him, still half-hard, back to the bed — their bed that already has two demons on it, Sam notes, through the blissed-out haze in his brain. They sit up when he approaches, and watch, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement. But Ruby spins him around and pushes him down on the bed, and he couldn't care less if there's anyone else there because she's climbing up on top of him. As he leans against the headboard, she slips off to sit beside him. She reaches through his gaping jeans and into his briefs and finally pulls him free. With a slow, lazy smile she lowers her head, wraps her lips around his cock, probing at the slit with her tongue. Her saliva is cool, but her breath is hot and he shudders involuntarily, his knee almost coming up to smack her in the chin. She places a palm on his thigh, and he stills beneath her touch. Or tries to.

She slides up his body, rucking his shirt up his stomach as she goes and her small hands chill his burning skin.

“I’m going to make it better, okay?” Ruby whispers into his ear as she fits herself around him. “You took a lot tonight… far more than you’ve ever taken before. And that’s not even counting what you took earlier today. You just need a little release.” Ruby pulls on the hem of his shirt. “I’m going to help you. It’ll be all right. Just hold on for another second,” she says as she eases it up his torso.

His breath catches as the air-conditioned air hits his flesh, gooseflesh prickling along his arms. He bucks slightly against her, restless, and she shakes her head, releasing one hand from the shirt to press down on his knee again. He straightens his legs, pushing into the bed, and his breath catches in his throat. He’s heading towards some kind of breaking point, knows that soon he won’t be able to contain all the little spikes of energy. “Please,” he begs, unsure of what he's even asking for.

But Ruby won't give him what he needs. She sits up and traces her fingers against his stomach until he tenses. He's rock hard, his brain's drifting away and his veins are full to bursting. He needs something to push him over the edge so he can let go. Anything.

To his left, someone clears his throat. Sam twists his head too quickly, making his neck twinge. There's a young man — or rather a demon wearing a young man looking down at him from next to the bed — one of the two that had been on the bed minutes ago. He's an inch or two taller than Ruby maybe, and nearly as slight. "I— I was wondering if you were still thirsty," he says timorously as he slides his hands out of the tight pockets of his leather pants. “Perhaps I could help…”

Sam makes a sound stuck somewhere between hysteria and desperation.

Ruby arches an eyebrow but nods at the demon, pulling her knife out of the sheath in her boot. She cuts across the young man's wrist and he offers it up to Sam, shaking slightly.

Eyes closed, Sam latches onto the wound and drinks. Ruby's deft fingers wrap around his cock and squeeze as they move up and down his shaft, keeping him full. Her mouth closes around him as she sucks harder, enveloping more of him in her moist heat. Her tongue is both too rough and too soft against his flesh, and there's sparks behind his eyelids. He can feel power pour out of him as he spills with a cry.

When he opens his eyes again, Ruby's wiping the back of her hand across her lips, the young demon's got his palm over his bleeding wrist, squeezing the wound, and on the other side of the room, the curtains are on fire.

And Sam is happy.

There's a shriek and a curse as the two crossroads demons on the couch, closest to the curtains notice what's happened. One of them runs to the ice bucket, pulling out the nearly empty champagne bottle to dump its mostly-melted contents on the flames.

Ruby leaps to her feet at the commotion but stops when she realizes what's happened, scowls and glares down at Sam.

He arches an eyebrow at her. _Thought you'd be proud._

She smiles at that, acknowledging she’s heard his thoughts, but her expression shifts into horror just as Sam feels something sharp pierce into his upper thigh. He lets go of the demon he's been drinking from and sees the syringe in the young man’s other hand — it’s tinted red but empty.

"What— what is that?" Sam asks as the contents of the syringe mix with everything else he's taken in that night. It’s ice in his veins — so cold that it _burns_ — and it shoots through his whole body, traveling up and down his neural pathways until it's in his toes and running up his chest through his arms. He wants to call out to Ruby for help but he can’t.

"Sam!" Ruby screams as the demon that attacked him backs away. His eyes are still locked on Sam.

Sam can feel Ruby grab onto his shoulders as the coldness travels further up the back of his neck and right into his brain. He needs to tell her that something's very wrong, but his jaw’s locked shut, his body stiffening beyond his control. He wants to scream as the blue fire in his veins expands. There's so much of it and he can't possibly hold it all in.

"I know who you are," the demon who'd poisoned him says. "They're going to try to kill you in the next round. But you won't die now. You can't."

"What did you do? You idiot!" Ruby yells, leaping to her feet. Sam sees her grab the demon with one arm as she draws her demon-killing blade from her hip-sheath with the other. The demon lights up gold-and-white as the blade catches him square in the stomach. Sam tries to reach for Ruby because the room is spinning and the lights are shattering above him and his veins are freezing. He needs something to hold on to, an anchor, or his tissue-thin control is going to give and he'll burst.

He can hear Ruby's voice as she skids back to his side, but she looks all wrong — he can't see her flesh, sees past her pretty face to the black cloud of her true self under her skin shifting and roiling. All the ice in his veins is turning to lava, he can see it glowing just underneath his skin, swears he can smell Ruby's skin begin to char just from touching him. There's a sun forming deep in his gut and any minute now he's going to go supernova. He screams soundlessly up at Ruby as his vision bleeds gold and his back arches as he lets go.

The room around him fills with a terrible white light.

**::: ::: :::**

There’s a loud, high-pitched humming that grows and grows and there’s a vacuum of power, a bright white light that she’s only seen once or twice before but it’s enough.

“Get out!” She screams, recoiling and scrambling away from Sam’s rigid, bowing body, his head and heels the only parts of him touching the carpet, his arms and legs jerking spasmodically as though there are volts of electricity pumping through him. “Get the fuck out! She shoves at the other demons and rushes at the door. She’s one of the first and she’s grateful for her inhuman speed as she hits the sidewalk and keeps running. She doesn’t turn back until she’s three blocks away. She glances around her and isn’t surprised that none of Sam’s entourage followed her and then she sees the top few floors of their hotel building and one of the windows is lit up like a Christmas tree, all bright, vivid white light. She watches it glow, like some kind of lighthouse or fucking Bat-Signal for all to see, when it suddenly extinguishes. She waits five minutes, ten, before she makes her way back to the hotel; hand curled around her demon-killing knife. _One can’t be too careful._ She doesn’t pass any demons on the way and, as she makes her way up the staircase and down the hall, she counts four dead bodies. There are two more in the hotel room.

She isn’t sure what she’d expected but it hadn’t been _this_ — everything almost perfectly normal, exactly as she’d left it. Except for the burst pipes, if the flooding in the bathroom is any indication, and shattered light fixtures. She steps around the dead demons and crouches beside Sam.

He’s unconscious and limp, a dark stain of wet spread down the front, legs, of his gaping jeans. His cock is limp and hanging out and there’s the sharp tang of piss. She extracts her knife, preparing to stick him if need be, and pushes two fingers into his jugular. It’s still distended, swollen in high-definition black and she registers the fine network of charred capillaries showing by his eye, temple. She feels the throb of his heartbeat and counts them off. His pulse is a little slow, erratic, but not drastically so. Not enough to be of concern, considering everything, at any rate. She stands, exhales, surveying the room. It’s a mess but they can’t afford changing rooms or even sneaking out without drawing too much attention. The dead bodies in the hallway are enough of a headache, even if their manager is in cahoots with Lilith.

She huffs out an angry breath of air and kicks at the male demon. Killing him once wasn’t enough. She sheathes her knife and returns to Sam’s side. Sam hadn’t moved and the dark webbing at his temple trailing down to the bloated throughway in his neck shows no sign of fading. She squats, gets Sam’s upper body half slung over her back and lifts him in an improvised fireman carry to the bed five feet away. He’s a furnace against her and she dumps him on the tangled, gross sheets, where he flops, limp and rag-limbed. Exhaling, she jerks at knotted bootlaces, muttering curses under her breath, and pulls off his boots. His jeans are a little harder, soaked and molded to his legs. The urine is cold and his thighs are scarlet and chafed. She peels off the briefs, decides the shirt is too much work. She lifts his legs onto the bed, arranges his limbs until he looks comfortable.

Leaving him for the moment, she goes into the bathroom. The damage isn’t as bad as she initially suspected and there’s still water running from the tap. She soaks two of the complimentary hand towels until they’re sopping and frigid and brings them back to Sam. He’s still out cold and she lays the compresses on his upper thighs, pressing them against his lymph nodes. She goes back into the bathroom, drenches a facecloth, and folds it across Sam’s forehead. His parted lips are dry, chapped, and there’s a light snoring coming from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Yeah,” she mutters, going to one of the bodies and hooking her hands into the corpse’s armpits, dragging it towards the hallway. “Sleep it off.”

**::: ::: :::**


	6. Chapter 6

When Sam comes back around, he’s got morning wood and he’s too weak, uncoordinated, from his seizure to relieve himself. It makes him cry out, whether out of discomfort or frustration she isn’t sure. It doesn’t matter. She’s there, though, and wraps her hand around the stiff erection. It takes hardly any effort, a few strokes of her thumb, and it’s relaxed again, but it leaves Sam breathing in wet, raggedy hitches. She switches out the cool compresses. The one on his forehead makes him whimper. The ones on each of his thighs make him flinch and shiver. He tries to bat away her hands but he’s too clumsy and she easily subdues him, a task made even easier by the fever burning through his system. Sam doesn’t drift off right away. He stays conscious, shuddering and watching her through glazed, glittery eyes, fingers twitching as though he longs to scratch at something.

“Easy,” she tells him. “You’ve had some pretty potent shit. Your body couldn’t handle it. He shouldn’t have done that. You weren’t ready…” She pauses, dabs a wadded-up, dripping facecloth along Sam’s throat. “Not yet. Won’t be for a while, but soon.” She doesn’t tell him that it’d been one step below Lilith, that she’d tasted it herself when she’d picked up the discarded syringe and broke the glass in her bare hands to get at the last droplets, to tap into Demon Network. The power in those few drops had been enough to take her breath away and it’d taken all of her training to rein in the torrent that’d threatened to overtake her. She still feels a little unsettled — she hadn’t taken enough to know whose blood it was but whoever it was, it’d been somebody old. Somebody strong. _No wonder Sam had gone supernova_. “It nearly killed you. You had a grand-mal seizure but you’re going to be okay. I’m going to look after you. Just rest,” she presses the rough fabric against Sam’s armpit and he inhales sharply, stiffens. She doesn’t apologize. Sam twitches again, pants, and she sees his gaze skitter along the walls, surfaces of their room without settling on anything.

“You okay?” She whispers, pausing the trail she’s smearing along his arm. He shudders and his abdominal muscles flutter, tightening and relaxing with each breath. She places her palm on the twitching planes.

“Too much,” Sam gasps out, jerking as though a low-voltage current has just run through his system. His fingers flex, clawing in. He clenches his eyes tightly, his face contorting into a grimace.

“Fuck,” she curses aloud as a small crack forms in the plaster behind Sam's head. If she can't get him to concentrate, he'll probably bring the whole damn place down, just by accident. “Hey,” she snaps at him, louder this time. “Hey. Look at me. That’s. An. Order.” It works and Sam's eyes fly open. His pupils are blown and the filament of color surrounding the black is gold. They latch onto her and she can see terror there. “Keep focusing on me, okay?” She gentles her tone and it makes him nod. “I’m gonna help you. I promise. I’m not going anywhere, but I need you to answer a couple of questions first.” Sam opens his mouth, panting, but he’s calmer. “Yeah,” she croons. “That’s it. Just keep looking at me.” His gaze is already beginning to wander. _Fuck._

She needs something to hold his attention. Something uncomplicated, but impossible for him to ignore and keep him in the here-and-now. Questions are definitely out. She goes to their little half-fridge, blessedly still functional after Sam's EMP impression, and pulls out the ice cube tray, carrying it back to the bed.

Sam's eyes are starting to close again, and the fitted sheet by his left hand is starting to smolder.

The ice cube tray crackles when she twists it, drawing Sam's attention. He watches her, confused, as she plucks one cube out of the tray and brings it down to his belly.

The sensation makes him hiss, abdominals tightening as he instinctively tries to pull away from the cold.

"This'll help," she says. "Trust me." She traces the ice cube into spirals and loops, leaving behind a trail of water in its wake. It melts quickly against Sam’s heated skin and she replaces it with a new one. He flinches, abdomen hardening in the instance before he’s able to relax. “Focus on it,” she tells him, running it back in forth in the concave of his stomach, tracing along his ribs, skirting the sternum, before gliding it back down to his pelvis. He whimpers as she slides it lower still, closes his eyes, opens them, squirms, but there are no more sparks, no more cracks. The cube turns to water in her fingers and she pops the ice from the tray again, brings a fresh cube to the crook of his elbow. She brings it high to his armpit, holds it there, and then lets it drip its way to his wrist. It’s a fraction of its original size, Sam’s fever melting the ice almost faster than she can replenish them, than he can bring himself down. She brings it back to his navel, lets it drop into the hollow of his bellybutton.

Sam's mouth opens in a soundless gasp and the water on his stomach runs down his sides as his back arches again. When he drops back onto the bed his eyes are unfocused, drifting back and forth across a spot of wall over Ruby's right shoulder.

"Stay with me, Sam." She holds up another ice cube and snaps her fingers, drawing his attention. "Stay here."

His eyes shift back towards her and focus on the cube. He shakes his head, a soft keen of protest in his throat, as she lowers it, brings it close to his skin.

She pauses, ice cube hovering over his chest. "You don't like how this feels?"

He shakes his head again.

"Then stop me." It's a risky game she's playing, because, as juiced as he is, if he _does_ lash out, he could kill her ten times over without batting an eyelash. But she also knows his mind is as fluid as the water on his skin and he probably wouldn't be able to concentrate long enough to take her down.

The ice cube in her hand begins to steam and melts before Ruby can touch him with it. "Good job," she says, noting the flames that have sprung up on the blanket by Sam's fingers. She grabs a discarded shirt and beats down the flames. "Let's try that again. No fire this time, okay?" She grabs two more cubes and this time Sam singes her fingertips along with the ice. They're not so much melted as incinerated.

"Good," she says, healing the blisters with a trickle of power. She holds out two more, but Sam's focus is slipping again. His eyes are back to that spot over her shoulder. She brings the ice quickly down on his skin but Sam's eyes stay locked where they are, bleeding black as he bares his teeth.

**::: ::: :::**

There's ice in his veins again, he can feel it starting low in his gut. It runs up his stomach, claws its way into his heart and he wills it to stop, tries to make it warm but he only has two settings: fire and ice and all he can do is flip the switch.

Fire runs through him and he can feel his blood boiling as it spills from his hands, onto the blanket. He shouts.

Ruby curses, moves away from him but she doesn't have to bother because the ice comes back and it puts out the fire and covers him, locking his limbs down in a solid block of cold. He can't move, he can't breathe and there's a flare of pain deep in his spine that shoots right up into his brain. When it gets there he's filled with agony. It spills out of his throat in a scream, liquefying the ice. The fire that follows doesn't come from him, it _is_ him and it pours out of every pore, covering the bed, crawling up to the ceiling like a living thing.

There's screaming. Ruby. He tries to see her, tries to focus, but the room's so bright. There's fire everywhere, an ocean of it, and the one empty spot right above him is Jessica-shaped.

 _You should have heard her cry,_ Brady's voice echoes in his head. _It was beautiful._

The ceiling is doubled. Sam sees the peeling red wallpaper of the hotel room around the edges along with the cream colored paint from his old apartment with Jess. He can smell the scent of her perfume in the air as it mingles with the stench of burning flesh. She's burning above him, her frightened eyes looking down at him, silently pleading for help.

"Sam!" screams a voice. But it's not Jess’. Sam's vision snaps back into focus and Jessica's blond hair goes dark. Her rounded face shifts into Ruby's angular one and she's pinned to the blazing ceiling — he's holding her up there, in the middle of an inferno.

Sickeningly aware of what he's doing, Sam releases Ruby and sits up, drawing his legs in as she falls, landing on the bed with a heavy thump. The flames vanish as one.

Ruby glares up at him, less frightened than she should be. God, she should be terrified. Her hair is singed and there are blisters on her cheeks and dark black burns on her arms, already healing. If she’d been human, she'd be near death.

But she's not. She sits up, and just looks at him, then up at the scorched ceiling. There are flakes of ash falling down on them, charred bits of paper and plaster, a light grey snow. "What did you see?" she asks.

Sam can't answer. He doesn't want to.

"You want to kill me?" she asks. Her voice is completely calm.

"No." He tries to wrap his arms around his legs, but they're shaking too badly and he settles for leaning his chin on his knees.

"Well you did better with the foreplay the other night."

"Why are you still here?" he asks. He wants to grab her, shake her and scream at her to run. "I could've killed you." He balls his hands into fists. "I couldn't even see you, and I couldn't— I couldn't stop myself."

She rises up onto her knees and moves closer to him, until she can touch his hair. She touches him carefully, like she's afraid he'll be spooked, and it's so ridiculous he wants to cry. He almost killed her, and she's worried about _him_. "Go." It comes out breathless, strangled.

She shakes her head and smiles. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Why not?" he asks, and his voice breaks despite himself. "What I did— It's what they all do. What Azazel did… What _Brady_ did…" Rage starts to bubble inside of him again as he remembers Brady's smug smile, but he tamps it down. He's not going to let the red-hot anger take over again. Not tonight. "Do you know what that means?"

Her smile falters. "Yeah, I do."

"I'm just as bad as them."

"No. You're just as _strong_ as them. There's a difference."

"Is there?" There's something wet running down his cheek and he brings a shaking hand up to wipe at it away.

Ruby slides closer and wraps her arms around him.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam shudders in her hold and she shifts on her knees so she’s higher than him. It’s still a stretch, though, for her arms to reach across the breadth of his shoulders. She adjusts her grip and he tenses the moment she loosens only to relax when she’s got one arm around his back, her other hand cradling his wet, dripping cheek. She peers down as she guides his head to her shoulder. She can feel damp, hiccupping puffs of air puff against the inside of her wrist where the blue pulse thrums beneath thin tissue.

He’s still shivering, his body convulsing in tiny, suppressed movements. The tension she can feel in his coiled frame almost makes her wince. He’s going to be sore tomorrow. _And whiny,_ she thinks as he jerks again, makes a broken half-sob sound of protest that may or may not be _just go_.

She bends her face toward his, curling her body protectively around him as a mother would a child. His eyes are scrunched tight and a grimace contorts his features as he twitches with invisible spasm. She strokes her thumb along his jaw, the roughness of emerging scruff bristling against her flesh. Even when he sinks his head onto her shoulder, she doesn’t cease the soothing motions. For a moment, she’s almost tempted to start humming tunelessly, the way she would’ve for Susanna but she doesn’t.

It’s pathetic, how easily his guilt makes Sam crumble. He’s stronger than half the demons in Hell but he clutches at her like a needy child. An irritating glimmer of sympathy runs through her and she makes a face as she combs her fingers through his sweaty, limp hair, holds him tighter. He could’ve killed her at least twice tonight. He didn’t, but he could have. And, yet, for some reason, she was never scared.

He trusts her. No matter how much his self-loathing might be setting him back, it’ll take her a matter of minutes to turn him around. Because she’s that good. And he trusts her.

It takes a long time but finally, finally, Sam stops crying and subsides into sleep and she lays him carefully on his back. It still catches her off-guard, sometimes, just how childlike these humans could be, how no matter how old they became, the way they still craved affection, approval. She pulls up the blanket over him, brushes out the wrinkles, allowing her touch to linger. She hesitates, presses her lips to his temple, and rises to her feet. She can sense Lilith’s presence nearby and she knows she can’t put it off any further, not without risking infuriating the superior demon.

Ruby closes the door behind her and the latch catches with a gentle _click_. She walks down the hall, takes the stairwell down a level, and finds Lilith sitting in one of the tucked-in alcoves off of each landing, the filthy picture window behind her obscuring the neon-lit city below, waiting for her. She’s chewing on a long string of red licorice.

“He’s asleep,” Ruby says, sitting on the edge of the long, wide window seat that takes up the entire embrasure beside the older demon.

“He’s a noisy dreamer,” Lilith comments and takes another chomp of her licorice. “All bloody and full of bugs and itchy things. He hears Dean when he’s dreaming. Want to know why?” She grins wide, red-stained tongue peeking through her crooked, gapped teeth.

“Why?”

“Because I let him hear!” she giggles.

Ruby flicks her gaze at the ceiling and she feels a slow smile spread across her features. “You shouldn’t,” she says, a token protest.

Lilith stares. “He needs to know. He needs to be ready. Or else Alastair is going to make worms’ meat of him. You of all people should know that.” She pauses, holds out a long floppy piece of licorice. “Candy?”

Ruby makes a face, but takes it. She bites off half of it and sugar and artificial-cherry flavoring explodes in her mouth. It’s definitely not the real thing, but that doesn’t make it any less disgusting. “You’re going to make him mad enough to kill you,” Ruby informs her.

Lilith sobers and for the briefest of moments she looks sad. She runs her hand back-and-forth along the matted, faded suede, watching it turn lighter and darker in turns with each pass of her hand. “I know,” she says, sounding all of eight and not the millennia-old demon she is. She looks up at Ruby, her eyes fanatical. “But that’s the way it has to be. I'm the last seal. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?”

It’s a rhetorical question so Ruby doesn’t answer. Besides, she’s been waiting a few centuries herself.

“It’s already starting,” Lilith says. “Ever since Dean stepped off the rack to fulfill the prophecy, seals have been breaking left and right. We’re up to thirty-two. Sam has to finish what Dean started. And when he kills me, the devil shall walk the earth.” Her eyes roll back, all marble-white. “I can’t ask for greater reward. For your service, you will be greatly blessed, handmaiden of the boy-king.”

Her eyes flip back to her normal blue and she scoots off the seat without bringing her candy in contact with the fabric. “You should probably go… Dean’s starting to do tricksies.” She turns and skips down the stairwell just as a bloodcurdling scream reverberates through the thin walls, funneling down the stairs to her ears.

**::: ::: :::**

"You had that coming, you know," a voice drawls. A voice so painfully familiar Sam jolts awake. He props himself up on his elbows and finds himself stripped down to his underwear. There are wet towels on his legs, and the sheet beneath him is soaked with sweat. His body feels shaky and his left arm gives out. He can't see anyone else in the room with him, but he knows what he heard. _Who_ he heard.

He uses all of his energy to force his head back up and scans the room. The lights in the room are dim, but there's enough of it for Sam to notice that something's wrong with the walls. They're pulsing, and there's something growing in the corners — it looks almost like black moss, but out of the corner of his eye, Sam thinks he sees flecks of yellow, like little sulfurous flowers.

"Ruby?" he says, hoping she hasn't left him alone again. He can't remember much of what happened. He'd won the level five rounds and was celebrating — drinking his way through demons, and then—

"You got sloppy," Dean says, stepping forward out of the shadows. He's wearing the clothes he wore on the day he died, but they're clean and whole, no trace of Hellhound wound anywhere on him.

Sam sits straight up and stares. This can't be real but that doesn't keep his heart from pounding. "Dean?"

"One of your fanboys gave you something way high-octane. You couldn't handle it." Dean says.

He walks closer and looks down at the bed with disgust. "You're fucking Ruby? Really?" He smirks and adds, "Can't figure out if I should be more pissed off by that or the blood-drinking."

"The blood… it's making me stronger," Sam says, shifting to lean against the wall. It feels cold against his back and convinces him he's really awake. Probably. "I need to be stronger. So I can save you."

Dean scoffs. "Nothing left to save, Sammy." He crosses his arms across his chest, drops his head to his chest, shakes it. He looks back up at Sam, smiles in a wolfish way that Sam really doesn’t like. "You were too slow." His eyes flood solid black.

"No," Sam says, horror and sorrow making it hard to speak. "I'm gonna get you out, you just have to hold on okay?"

Dean uncrosses his arms, puts his hands on the mattress and leans over, until he's eye level with Sam. Sam feels himself drowning in the oil slick of their color. It’s worse than when he sees Ruby’s. They’re unnatural, _wrong_ in his brother’s familiar face. "Hold on?" Dean’s eyes don’t change as his mouth curves into a sneer. "I did. I held on for _decades_ and you didn't save me. You left me down there. To rot."

"No— no I—"

"Too busy fucking a demon to bother to save your own brother."

"That's not true. I tried everything to save you! I went to the crossroads, but they wouldn't take me." The wall behind his back begins to prickle and he pulls away, whipping his head around. That dark moss is there, but it isn't soft at all, it's sharp and his skin itches where he touched it. He scratches at his shoulder and turns back to Dean, whose eyes are still an unforgiving, empty black. "They didn't want my soul."

Dean huffs, unconvinced.

Sam's heart hurts, it's clenching so tightly and the guilt is overwhelming. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll get you out. I promise, I—"

"Why should I believe a damn word that comes out of your mouth?" Dean's voice lowers to a growl.

The guilt lays heavy in Sam's stomach, but those words send an unbidden flare of rage through him. "It's the truth. I _will_ get you out."

"You're not strong enough. You really think you're ready to take on Lilith? Alastair?"

"Who's Alastair?"

Dean's smile sends a shudder down Sam's smile and he raises one of his hands, pulls a thin, slightly curved, wicked looking blade from thin air. "My teacher. Want me to show you what I learned?" Dean brings the blade down to Sam's leg and brings the sharp blade to his skin, cutting a neat line right above his artery.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam's scream dies into a whimper as Ruby tears open the door.

She runs to his side, and frowns at his sweat-slicked, pale skin, his wide, yellow-black eyes. Whatever he's looking at is scaring the shit out of him, and it's not even real.

"Please don't," Sam whispers. There's an ugly desperation in his voice. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? Those jackasses you burned? No use crying over them," Ruby says as she sits down next to him on the bed. The fitted sheet has been pulled loose, and the stained, pale blue of the mattress shows in the corner next to Sam's head.

Sam's left leg twitches and he brings his hands down to his thigh, simultaneously letting out a blood-curdling scream. His femoral artery turns solid black and the darkness spreads out into all the smaller veins, a tainted latticework.

She's seen it before in the ring, but usually this kind of thing only manifests when Sam's channeling some serious mojo. She watches, fascinated, as the black starts to flicker and his undulating veins light up bright white. Sam's back arches and he gasps, straining for breath, before falling heavily back onto the bed as the light in his veins dies and disappears. It's not a seizure, his limbs are still under his control, more or less; she knows he's just reacting to his body trying to process the power inside of him.

It's not going well.

"Okay," Ruby mutters to herself. "Minor setback. But I love me a challenge." She scoots closer to Sam and puts her hands on either side of his face, trying to get his attention. His eyes fly open and stare straight into hers.

"Ruby—"

"Yeah, I’m right here. Sorry, I had to skip out for a second. You all right?"

"No." Sam's eyes dart to a spot over her shoulder. "You have to get out of here. He'll kill you."

"Who?"

"Dean," Sam whispers fiercely. "Ruby, he knows."

"Knows what?" Ruby asks, ignoring for a moment that Sam thinks Dean is in the room with them, and weirder that he's worried about her being killed by his brother who, last time she’d checked, was a hunter.

"The blood. He tried to cut it out of me." Sam grabs at his leg again. "But I don't think it's working. It's still—" His words cut off and he jerks his chin up, eyes widening. "Dean, no!"

Ruby lets go of Sam, and turns to look over her shoulder, then back at Sam. "There's nothing there." She wraps her fingers around Sam's. His skin is clammy now, the fever receding — a good sign. "Do you remember why you're doing this? Why you're fighting, why you're making yourself stronger?"

Sam nods. His voice cracks a bit as he answers, quietly, "To save Dean."

"Right, so then how can he be here?" she asks, patiently.

"He says I'm too late." Sam winces and clutches at his leg again with his free hand. "Wants to show me what Alastair taught him."

"Alastair?" Ruby asks. She's never told Sam that name. Either he somehow overheard her talking with Lilith down in the stairwell, or he's reading her thoughts. If it's the latter she's screwed. Strengthening her mental shields as much as she can, she takes a deep breath. "It's not real. He's not here. It's just you and me."

Sam cries out as his veins taint black again. It's not as bad as before, from the looks of it, and the darkness recedes almost as quickly as it comes.

"Dean's not here," Ruby says, gripping his hand more firmly. "You're seeing things because of what that idiot gave you. But you can handle it. Stop fighting it, let it in." She pauses. “You’re going to be okay.”

"It hurts," Sam hisses as he squeezes his eyes shut. "It won't stop moving."

"I know, just, try to focus on my voice okay?"

Sam grunts, and it’s as much of an answer as she's going to get for the time being. She reaches out just as his eyes fly open again, pitch black in the center rimmed with yellow around the edges, and his skin heats up again, so quickly Ruby's fingers scald where they’re touching him.

"Sam?"

The veins in his neck and chest all bleed black at once, spreading out across his whole body, pulsing in time with his racing heart. "Make it stop," he begs, piteously.

 _Dammit,_ she thinks, as she tries to figure out what to do. Sam was tailor-made for demon-blood and he's physically incapable of dying from it thanks to Azazel. He's just been upgraded too quickly. They need to trick his body into taking the blood in _now_ , to absorb its power instead of trying to reroute it. It's by design that it won't leave his system. What was in the syringe is wholly different from what Sam's been taking. He won't burn through it, it'll stay in his veins forever, and if he can get past the psychological part of his addiction he won't need to keep downing mass quantities.

Ruby slides off the bed and grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, twisting open the cap as she heads back to the bed. Sam doesn't look at her when she sits back down, still watching something on the wall, something fascinating enough to capture his interest completely. She holds the water bottle up to his lips. "Drink."

Sam's mouth opens at the command and he swallows from the bottle. Instantly, he starts choking on the water, coughing and clutching at his upper chest. Steam pours out of his mouth and Ruby recoils, more fascinated than worried.

"Okay then, Plan B." She grabs the small blade from her boot and slices her wrist open, bringing it to Sam's mouth the second his hacking stops.

As soon as her skin touches his lips she knows it's what he needed. He grabs onto her arm, pulling her close and sucks at the wound eagerly.

She lets him gulp for a couple of minutes and gently pulls her limb from his mouth. She knows it isn’t much, but the intent wasn’t to feed Sam’s powers but rather just to trick Sam's body into doing what it's supposed to do. It works. His veins settle back to a soft blue and his overheated skin cools. Confused, he loosens his hold on her arm and then lets go, looking up at her as his eyes fade back to hazel. He takes a deep, shaky breath and flexes his fingers, staring at them as little sparks of electricity dance between them. "What's happening to me?" he asks. He sounds so scared it's almost laughable.

"You're adapting. That blood was way, way too strong for you, but if you can get a handle on it, the next few rounds will be a cinch."

"I don't feel right," Sam says softly, palming his stomach. Sweat stands out along his forehead and he looks nauseous as his gaze wanders past her to the wall, the ceiling, then back to her again. His eyes settle on her and she can see fear and uncertainty in their depths. "There are hooks hanging on the ceiling."

"Nope, just crappy paint."

"The one above your head has a heart on it."

She looks up and shakes her head. "Crappy paint.” She resists the compulsion to smile.

Sam's eyes close as his face shifts into a grimace. "It hurts."

"Yeah, I know."

"How would you know?" Sam asks, half snarling as the pain crests, his body stiffening again.

"Because I've been around you long enough to know when you're in pain, dumbass." She pulls on his arm and stands. "Come on, I know what'll help."

Sam refuses to budge at first, but the sparks come back, flashing along the flesh of his fingers and arms. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, letting her lead him into the bathroom.

"You need to let off some steam. There’s too much pressure building up inside of you. That energy spilling out of your fingers, it's telling you something."

"What? That I'm a fire hazard?"

She scoffs. "Yeah, that too." She opens the cold water faucet in their filthy tub and watches it fill.

"I'm not taking a cold bath," Sam says, taking a step back towards the door like he's afraid she'll push him in. She might, if it comes down to it.

"Even I'm not cruel enough to make you sit in there," Ruby says. "Kneel."

Sam arches an eyebrow at her but does as she says.

"Stick your hands in the water."

He kneels down next to her and leans over the edge of the tub, sticking his bare arms in the ice water. "Fuck it’s cold.” The words come out as a whine but he doesn’t pull his hands out of the bath.

"Yeah it is. Make it warmer."

Sam looks at her dubiously but closes his eyes. Short pulses of black shoot through his veins as he channels his energy. Which is kind of the whole point of the thing. Within seconds the air above the water feels warmer and a few seconds later the surface starts to steam.

"How's that feel?" Ruby asks.

"Warmer," Sam answers humorlessly.

She slaps him lightly on the arm and pulls the drain. "Good. Do it again."

**::: ::: :::**


	7. Chapter 7

After the attempted sabotage, the officials delay the start of the Level Six rounds by three days, giving Sam a week and some change to recuperate. Even so, Sam's mind still isn't in fighting shape. It takes over six days for Sam to find his footing, and even then he's only partially back in the real world. His body is under control again, but he keeps seeing things he knows aren't there. The walls of the tunnel leading into the ring ripple in gentle waves as he walks between them.

Ruby did her best to bring him back, getting him to channel his new power into simple things like boiling the water for their coffee, but he knows it was a patch job at best. He can feel that high-octane blood in his cells, restlessly pulsing inside of him. It's a constant itch that only goes away when he's using his power. Even then, it's only muted for a few minutes before it comes back.

He can deal with all that. Being uncomfortable in his skin, endlessly thirsty for something he knows is making him less human with every drop — it's nothing new. Those are all just facts of life since he took Ruby up on her offer of power and revenge. The real problem is that he still can’t always tell what’s real, the world feels blurred and off-kilter.

As Sam enters the arena to loud cheers from the audience, he hears Dean calling his name. He looks around, trying to find him as he heads towards the cage, but can't pick him out from the sea of black eyes in the packed seats. Someone was smart enough to remove the first few rows of seating completely, leaving a big ring of standing room for those brave or stupid enough to stand close to the cage while Sam's inside.

He cracks his knuckles as he walks up the ramp, trying to ignore the skittering inside his veins. It'll be better soon, as soon as he finds a target and lets loose. If the floor would stop overheating under his feet that would really help too. He pulls his melting sneaker free from the red-hot metal grate of the ramp and staggers towards the cage as the Ref gives him a vaguely concerned look.

"You okay?" the Ref asks.

"Does it matter?" Sam asks, scoffing.

"Want to make sure my money's in the right place," the Ref says. "You're one hell of a cash cow, you know."

"Having some trouble focusing," Sam admits. "Might be best if you get into your box early."

The Ref’s eyes flick black and he swallows nervously, then turns to head into the warded box, switching his microphone back on as Sam enters the cage. "Ladies and gentlemen, The Hunter!"

The packed arena erupts in applause and a good number of them start chanting his stage name.

The cage door opposite Sam opens and his brain stutters to a halt as he sees three familiar faces file in.

"And tonight's opponents, three Level Sixes from Azazel's brood: Ava Wilson, Max Miller and Jake Talley!"

The three of them spread out, forming a triangle, three sets of black eyes rimmed with gold, all leering at him. Sam's pulse races as his anger rises, but he can't focus. The arena's bright lights are melting, dripping down onto the mat like white-silver mercury, and the audience is nothing but an ocean of black.

**::: ::: :::**

_He could have used another day,_ Ruby thinks to herself as she watches Sam from her front row seat. Technically, it’s the sixth row but the first five have been ripped up.

Sam's opponents are enormously strong, even by demonic standards. Ava, especially, is a force to be reckoned with. Ruby can feel Ava's power spreading like vines, growing up and over the fence of the cage, like it's searching for something to dig into. If it reaches further, there could be trouble, but soon enough, she'll have her hands full with Sam. All three of them will.

Ruby can feel that something's off, but she can't put a finger on it until she sees Sam's face. He knows them; he recognizes their faces. These three are wearing their own human bodies, meaning somebody pulled a whole lot of strings to get them here. Under the reanimated skin and bone, Ruby sees the smoke inside of them — the streaks of yellow, tainted by the blood of the Fallen, by Azazel's blood. They have an advantage like this; occupying their own skin will make it that much harder for Sam to grab a hold of their souls.

Ruby crosses her arms over her chest as she studies Sam, who keeps shifting unevenly on his feet, his eyes flicking to the right, seeking out somebody in the audience, somebody that isn't her.

Sam's three opponents can smell his uneasiness, and start snickering — a pack of hyenas ready to tear apart a weakened lion. Ruby extends her senses further; uses her powers to hear every word, see every taunt.

"Been a long time," Ava says, her smile widening. "I was hoping we'd get to play some more. It gets boring down in Hell. Not a lot of real competition." She rubs her hand against her neck, like she slept on it funny.

"You look good," Jake says, cracking his knuckles. "Been working out?"

Max scoffs. There's a neat circle at his temple; a bullet-hole. "Guess you couldn't get away from it all either, huh?"

"I tried," Sam says softly. "Thought I could for a long time."

"Your brother knew you wouldn't." Max says. When he raises his hands up to his temples, his eyes flash yellow.

Ruby sees Sam steeling himself against the attack, but Max is strong and he's had practice. A blast of force hits Sam in the chest and he flies back, colliding with the cage. He lands heavily on the padded floor and the air's knocked out of him.

 _Get up,_ Ruby thinks at Sam. _Get up and get angry._

But Sam doesn't hear her. He can't.

Max gives Sam all the time he needs, waits until Sam's back up on his feet and then sends him flying back into the fence even harder. The metal rattles from the impact and, just a few feet to Sam's left, the ref glares down at them from his box. Jake catches the ref's eyes, walks up to the box and pounds on it with the heel of his palm. The box shakes again, wobbling precariously, and the ref's annoyance shifts to healthy fear.

When Sam claws his fingers into the mesh and drags himself up once more, it's the closest thing to secondhand embarrassment Ruby's felt in decades. "Do something," she hisses under her breath.

Sam reaches his arm out, hand shaking, breathing heavily as he tries to steady himself. Max flicks his fingers, sending Sam flying before he gets the chance. This time, Sam stays pinned against the fence, two feet off the ground.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam strains against Max's hold, gives up seconds later as his heart goes into overdrive. He’s sweating and his lungs won't expand enough and the little air he does get sears. The different strengths of blood inside him war for dominance, giving Sam the option of unfocused power with no precision or a surgical strike that could just as easily backfire with his aim as shitty as it is. The new blood is too damn strong and all Ruby's drills had done was make him functional again. Barely.

 _"Come on, Sammy!"_ a voice calls out from the audience.

Sam turns his head towards the sound and he finds Dean beaming back at him from the makeshift mosh pit surrounding the cage. There are about a dozen demons around him — the handful too stupid to care if they get caught in the shockwave. But all of them fade gray into the background, like the cement floor of the arena. Dean's the only thing in color, down to his blue jeans and green button-down, the gold of the amulet on his chest and the liquid black of his eyes. _"Show me what you can do,"_ he says. It's not a request; it's an order and a challenge.

Sam's body responds, even before the still sluggish, rational part of Sam's mind can argue that Dean's not really there. He's still six feet under the earth in Pontiac and, if Sam doesn't win this fight tonight, that's where Dean will stay until time and insects pick the flesh off his bones.

With an ease that should scare him but doesn't, Sam breaks Max's hold. The fence ricochets back, and Sam takes advantage of its momentum and aims as close to the center of the mat as he can. He lands in a crouch, lunges forward immediately. He goes for Max first, wrapping the kid’s head in a chokehold while he reaches his mental fingers around the demonic soul inside.

Ava's eyes widen, impressed, as she watches Sam tighten and flex his arm, crushing Max's windpipe. Sam can hear her mocking claps as Max's soul begins to smolder. "So it _is_ true, what they say about you," she says. "Thought for a minute there maybe they were exaggerating."

Sam is still holding Max when Jake grabs his shoulders. It's a vice, Jake's amplified strength now easily twice what it was when he was alive, and he knocks Sam off-balance — enough that he loses his hold on Max.

Max scrambles away, coughing up little bits of black smoke and ash, as Jake crashes his fist into Sam's middle. The force is immense, and with the next punch Sam feels a rib snap. "What do they say?" Sam asks Ava, through gritted teeth, as he ducks Jake's next blow.

"Mixed reviews," Ava says, shrugging her shoulders, walking warily along the perimeter of the match, her eyes never leaving Sam’s. "Some of the folks downstairs think you're the second coming."

"And some of us think that's bull," Jake says, smirking at him, as Sam blocks another hook. "I know what you are."

"Oh yeah? What's that?" Sam says, as he jabs and then follows with a right cross that's way too slow. Jake counters as Sam hoped, grabbing hold of Sam's right arm. He pulls down hard, giving Sam the opening he needs. He wraps his arm around of Jake's neck, clamps his hand under the jaw and pictures fire in the back of his mind.

"A coward." Jakes says, voice straining against Sam's fingers. "You couldn't do what you had to do to stay alive back at Cold Oak. Only reason—" the rest of Jake's words dissolve into a scream as fire spills from Sam's fingertips, blistering Jake's skin. He wrenches violently out of Sam's grip, dislocating Sam's shoulder in the process.

There's a smoldering burn on Jake's neck.

Sam clutches at his shoulder and looks up just in time to see Max thrust his hand out towards him. But Sam's ready this time, and holds his ground. Max's brow furrows as he pours more energy into his attack. Sam keeps blocking as he gingerly tests his right arm for mobility. It aches, tendon-deep and useless. He knows if he’d let it, the new blood would probably heal him, but not here. Not while fighting off three at once.

"The only reason you're still topside is because Big Brother sacrificed himself for you," Jake says through clenched teeth, the skin under his jaw still smoking. "How can you even live with yourself, knowing that? That you're living on somebody else's clock, that you’re only here because someone else had the balls to do what needed to be done."

A snarl escapes Sam's lips as he hurtles towards Jake, good arm drawn back, ready to deliver a hard blow to his jaw. Jake's fast but Sam is faster. The hook lands with a satisfying thud, but Jake barely flinches.

"Yeah? You wanna go at it?" Jake asks, as he counters with a punch to Sam's middle that sends him flying across the cage. He crashes into the fence, and lands heavily on his side. His already injured shoulder explodes in pain and Sam cries out, clenching his eyes shut.

The audience bursts into applause, cheering loudly, and from the sound of their cheers, a whole lot of them have abandoned their seats for the pit, just to get a better view.

"See? You're nothing special," Jake says. "Never were." Sam feels something push against his chest, and hisses through his teeth as he's rolled onto his back. Jake's leering down at him, Max to his left. A claw grabs hold of Sam's insides, constricting his heart, his lungs, anything and everything Max can hold with his mind. Max squeezes until Sam's seeing stars.

"I won the game first," Jake says. "I killed you. This time I'll make sure it sticks." Sam's vision starts to go and Jake's face drifts into fractal patterns while his foot pushes deeper into Sam's chest. Max has got his claws in Sam's guts, and a thousand hands are pinning Sam down and somewhere far away Ava is laughing.

"Come on!" Dean yells into Sam's ear, clear as a bell. Sam's eyes fly open and he forces his head to the right, towards the sound of Dean's voice.

The whole standing-room-only area is packed with demons now, jostling against each other to get a better view. Dean is at the very front, pressed against the fence and he's got a thirteen-year-old Sam on his shoulders. "I promised him a good show!" Dean shouts. "You gonna get off your ass or just lay there and die?"

Sam blinks, but Dean doesn't disappear. He's still there, and so is the Sam on his shoulders. They're giving Sam identical, annoyed looks.

"I mean, hey, it's no skin off my back," Dean says. "I'm already dead." Dean's unmarred face starts to rot, withering away in time-lapse. "Guess I had too much faith in you. But you already gave up, didn't you?" Young-Sam narrows his eyes.

Sam's heart beats impotently in his chest, squeezed too-small by Max's hold and Jake's weight and Dean's bones are starting to peek through his skin.

 _No,_ Sam thinks. _No._

His heart thumps again and then _pounds_ shrugging Max's power off like it's water. Sam's limbs are his own again, and he grabs hold of Jake's ankle, twisting sharply. The fibula breaks with an audible crack, bone jutting sharply through the broken skin of his ankle. Blood gushes out of the wound and Jake collapses, screaming. Sam brings his red-slicked fingers to his mouth as he turns to Max and Ava. The audience is an ocean of sound and Sam can't tell their rage from revelry and thinks maybe it's all the same.

Max is inches away from the fence, pressing back against it when Sam rounds on him. Ava's still watching, crouched in the corner of the cage, arms folded across her chest like she's just another spectator with the best seat in the house.

He reaches one hand out to Max, the other down towards Jake and digs with his mind until he finds their deep-rooted souls. The effort is extraordinary, even with the taste of Jake's blood fresh on his tongue, but Sam grabs hold of them, pulls them both loose from their flesh and wills them to burn.

They fight back, squirming through his mental grip and start to spill out of their bodies — eyes and mouths dribbling twin dark clouds into the air. Sam's fury grows and he tries to slow their escape, but the effort of trying to hold onto both of them at once is just too much, and they slip out of his control, spiraling up out of their flesh and towards the domed arena ceiling.

"Well that's just no fun at all," Ava says as she tilts her head up, watching them. She lifts two fingers and the two funnel-clouds freeze where they are. With a flick of her wrist, Ava sends them hurtling back down into their bodies. "Funny thing about Max," she says. "He doesn't need his legs to kick your ass."

Jake's body sits up, but the power that slams into Sam's chest is Max's. He staggers back, holding his footing, but just barely.

"You really think any of this is going to save your brother?" Ava asks. "You have any idea what Dean is now? What he's been doing?" She laughs viciously.

Max's small frame saunters over to Sam, and the smirk on his lips belongs to somebody else entirely. So does the strength in his fists. Sam blocks the first two jabs and the first cross, but Max's pointy knee crashes into his ribs, and then his elbow comes down on the back of his head and Sam goes down, his head bouncing against the mat and the world around him slows to a strobe-lit crawl.

"Need some Gatorade?" Dean is looking up from the standing area below him with Sam's younger self to his left, radiating fury.

"Or do you need big brother to save your ass again?" Young-Sam adds, voice dripping humiliation and bitterness.

Dean winks up at Sam and pulls a small hidden blade out from inside his jacket sleeve. "I got you covered." He grabs the handle of the knife and flicks it expertly through the air. It slides just under the bottom gap between the fence and the mat and skitters across the latex-covered foam, stopping inches away from Sam's hand.

Max slams his fist down, but misses Sam's head by a hair, and Sam takes that split second to grab for the knife. He brings it up and around in a tight arc as he rolls up onto his knees, and slashes the blade cleanly across Max's throat.

Red wells up quickly and Sam grabs Max’s slight form, wrestling it beneath him as he clamps his mouth over the wound, sucking down as much as he can. The potency of Max's blood — _or is it Jake's_ — is just as surprising the second time around, and Sam feels breathless from in a matter of seconds. He can feel Max's power trying to knock him off balance, and distantly Ava's cackling, but at that moment, Sam just doesn't care.

Sam's heart pounds faster, the new flood of power threatening to push him into overdrive again. He's not scared of it anymore though, he welcomes it, and when he lifts his eyes up, still drinking more down, he can see Dean through the fence, alone in the pit, eyes black as pitch. Sam's younger self is drinking from Dean's arm.

He’s suddenly pulled off Max’s body and pinned to the wall.

“I’m still kicking,” Jake says. And Sam’s smashed into the mat. He barely catches himself with his hands and his vision goes wonky. “You underestimate and underestimate me. Why?” The last word is cried out, high and hysterical.

The fury inside of Sam makes it impossible for him to answer, but it speaks for him, he lashes out with his power, breaking Jake’s — _Max’s_ — hold. He feels the pressure build, and scrambles to where Jake’s still lying, gripping his ankle. He reaches out, grips the collar of Jake’s shirt and drags him close. Jake shouts as his ankle is jostled and then there’s liquid flame spilling out of Sam's fist and over Jake’s clothes and skin. Jake’s whimpers turn to screams as the fire slides into his open mouth and down his throat, seeking out that hidden black cloud. Once his power is deep inside, it doesn't take Sam long to find what he's looking for.

It only takes three more seconds to burn Max's soul to ash and incinerate Jake’s body.

Sam turns back to face Ava and tries to call on that potent blood from the syringe, the heat from the swallow he’s taken moments ago, but it's still dormant, an igniter with too little fuel.

"You've got an open bar of 30% proof right next to you, man," Dean says from next to Sam.

Sam staggers back in surprise and falls on Jake's limp form. He sees Dean through the fence and Dean nods at Jake, draws his finger across his own throat.

"I'll buy you some time," Dean says. Sam wraps his fingers around the small blade, once again in his fingers. He could've sworn it wasn't there a second ago. The tip of the knife slides cleanly into Jake's neck, and leaves a hair-thin but deep line in its wake. Sam leans down and draws his tongue over the wound, forcing it open wider, and drinks. He only allows himself one swallow

Sam pushes himself to his feet, wavering as he tries to straighten his knees, and looks groggily for Ava.

He finds her pinned against the fence, choking. Behind her, Sam can see Dean grinning. As Sam draws closer to Ava, his younger self — still perched on Dean’s shoulders — smiles and nods. The bitterness from earlier is gone. He looks proud.

Sam looks down at the blade in his hand, clean again, like it was never coated in Jake's blood, and then back at Dean. Almost as an afterthought, Sam flips the blade in grip and then tosses it, with practiced ease, through the air. He catches it on its way down.

Sam can practically taste her on his tongue before he reaches her. Ava struggles, but gets nowhere, trapped as Sam cages her in, hands on her shoulders. Sam slides one hand from her shoulder, up her neck, and tilts back her chin. She doesn’t fight him off. _Can’t._ And Sam flicks the knife against her windpipe.

She gasps, but it comes out more of a gurgle, and Sam bears down, clamping his mouth around the wound. Sam kills Ava while he's feeding from her, and feels something like the recoil of a gun snap into him as her soul is snuffed out. He pulls back, breathless and overfull with energy and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as Ava’s lifeless body falls to the mat.

As the crowd goes wild, Sam hears two voices cheering louder than the rest. Dean's got young Sam on his shoulders. They're both whooping at the top of their lungs. His younger self falls silent, and grins at Sam with a bloody smile and bright yellow eyes.

**::: ::: :::**

The tunnel entrance smells vaguely like mildew. Ruby waits there for Sam, ignoring the noise of the audience. A lot of money changes hands, most of it stolen to begin with. Demons gambling still make her roll her eyes.

Sam gets most of the way down the cage-ramp before his knees buckle. Ruby catches him and maneuvers him through the tunnel, towards the locker rooms. He won’t stop shaking, sweating and babbling about Dean and yellow eyes and how everything looks like the fucking ocean, repeating himself in a disjointed, frenetic mumble. She has no idea what the hell he's trying to tell her.

"How'd he even get a knife in here?" Sam asks, pulling away from Ruby when they get to his locker. His chest is slick with sweat, and his mouth is stained rust-red. His eyes are solid black, and Ruby has no intention of sharing that.

"What knife?"

"Dean. He threw me a knife."

"You never had a knife," Ruby says, her patience fading.

"I did. I used it on Max, I mean Jake, and—" Sam's brow furrows in confusion. "How'd Dean get it past the metal detectors, the no-weapon wards?"

"There was _no_ knife. You sliced him open with your brain." Ruby takes a sharp breath. "Sam, why are you fighting?"

"To get Dean out of Hell." Sam scrunches his eyes shut. "But he was there, and so was I. I mean little-me and—"

"You need a shower, stinky," Ruby interrupts. She grabs his towel from his locker, nudges him forward and he starts walking. His shoulder slams against a support column on the way into the shower area, but he doesn't seem to care about his half-assed equilibrium and stumbles on forward.

Ruby turns the cold water on full-blast and shoves him into the stall, telling him that there’s no way in hell she’s going to get into a car with him drenched in sweat like that because he’ll reek something fierce once it cools. His legs give out and he crumples into a mess of quivering limbs. She takes advantage of the inverted height difference to pop his shoulder back in. His shout echoes off the tiled walls and the pooled water beneath him turns to steam.

Her first two attempts to pull an uncooperative, sulking Sam back to his feet result in nothing more than cracked tiles and a busted showerhead as Sam bats Ruby away with unfocused bursts of energy. She squats down next to him and grabs him by the chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers. They’re hazel again but from the looks of them, he’s got a mild concussion. "Congratulations. You won. You made it through Level Six. Do you remember what we have to do next?"

Sam blinks, the white lights from the ceiling reflect off his blown pupils, making his eyes seem darker than they are. "Get Dean."

"That's right. We have to go dig up your brother’s mutilated, rotted corpse because he’s gonna need his suit. And then you’re gonna win his soul back by beating whoever they pair you against."

Wet tile fizzles, beads of water evaporating as Sam's hand pushes against the stall and he stands. His knees are still shaky, but his expression is stony. "Let's go."

"We can wait until tomorrow—"

Sam slams his hand against the wall, leaving a sizable dent.

"Or not."

**::: ::: :::**


	8. Chapter 8

The pedal is almost flat under her foot as they hurtle toward Pontiac. The road here is straight, with a few lazy curves she takes too wide and on two wheels. It’s getting on two in the morning and she’s got the road to herself. She sticks to the scenic route, keeping away from streetlights and city limits and speed-trap zones.

 _You're supposed to take a victory lap, not a victory nap,_ Ruby thinks to herself, as she watches Sam sleep next to her in the passenger seat, huddled up in a hoodie and slumped against the door, temple resting against the glass, his damp hair frizzing and curling along his nape as it dries. He’s peaceful, now; quiet at least. There's still crusted maroon embedded in his fingernails, the crevices of his knuckles, and the corners of his mouth. He hadn't had the patience or energy to clean properly after the fight, and Ruby's half-hearted attempts at soaping him up hadn't accomplished much.

Spying an exit, she takes it. Sam needs real food in him and probably some water — he hadn’t drunk enough after the fight and she wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in dehydration territory, complete with the headaches and sore muscles. Fast food would be ideal. Well not for him, but for her. Someplace quick, twenty-four-seven, right off the highway and preferably serving fries, but she’d settle for just about anything. She glances over at him and in the sulfuric glow of the streetlights, he looks pale, brow furrowed in unease. _And maybe some blood and a hand job wouldn’t hurt,_ she thinks to herself.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam's eyes open on a highway framed by a wide passenger seat window. It takes him a few seconds to process the details enough to know he's not in the Impala. His legs have just as much room, but the height's all wrong. He turns, neck stiff, head throbbing and wrapped in a chemical haze. His body's exhausted, and one look down at his bruised knuckles reminds him why. _Max, Ava, Jake._ He remembers taking them all down, and Dean looking on with pride.

No, not Dean. Just his brain playing tricks. Or maybe it was Dean. Sam's not really sure. His brain feels sluggish and faded. He remembers Ruby feeding him pills before they left The Abyss. Xanax, maybe, or Ativan. Maybe even Valium. Something in the benzodiazepine class for sure.

Ruby's in the driver's seat. Ruby, not Dean. Not Dean.

"We'll be there in another five minutes or so," she says when she sees him looking.

He almost asks where they're going, and then he remembers. _Dean. They're going to get Dean._ "He's not angry at me anymore," Sam says, even though he hadn’t mean to say it out loud.

Ruby's eyes flick to his, but she doesn't say anything.

"He was cheering for me."

"We all were, Butterfly."

He hates that name, and she knows it. He tries to tell her, but his jaws won't open. Headlights from an oncoming car stream through the windshield and in their light, Sam can see a halo around Ruby's head. It's made of sulfurous light and dissipates when they take a turn onto the off ramp.

"Not a butterfly," he says, finally getting his mouth to work. There's a tickle in his throat and he coughs into his cupped fist over and over until he finally hacks up something. When he looks down at his hand, there's a black feather lying in his palm. He holds it up to show Ruby, but it drips liquid off his skin leaving red stains on the knees of his jeans.

Ruby glances at him, her expression unreadable, and for an awful moment he doesn’t know which would be worse — for the feather to be real, or a figment of his overactive imagination. She stares at him for a beat longer and then reaches down between them, hands him a bottle of water. “Drink up. There’s a chicken sandwich if you want it,” A pause. “Grilled,” she adds. “You still need to eat.”

**::: ::: :::**

Ruby squats beside an open grave just outside of Pontiac, Illinois, watching Sam dig with an easy grace that only comes with long practice and muscle memory. She isn’t keeping watch, not in the way Sam would’ve stood guard at his brother’s back. She probably should, seeing how she’s got a price on her head. But, at the same time, she isn’t afraid, isn’t perturbed by the concept of someone coming after them. For one, she’s gotten Sam this far through the Levels so there’s at least a grudging respect, if not fear, and for another, Dean’s the property of Lilith and there’s not many who would dare cross her nor the one who’d apprenticed him. Thirdly, there’s no spirit to charge up angrily at being disturbed since Dean’s soul was well and truly ensconced in Hell. In the light of the Colman lantern by her feet, she can see the muscles of Sam's back bunching and rippling as he bends low, drives the shovel into the soft, dry earth, and lift, tossing it over his shoulder where it lands on the opposite side of the grave.

Soon there’s a thump as the shovel hits something hard and hollow and Sam casts his shovel aside to brush the remaining dirt off the coffin lid with his hands, taking the same care a paleontologist would take with fossilized bones. She gets the sense that he normally wouldn’t bother, would break through the lid with the shovel any other time for a salt-and-burn. He steps to the side when he reaches wood and pries the lid open with a grunt.

Instantly, he recoils, the back of his wrist pressed to his nose, mouth.

She blinks, doesn’t flinch. Truthfully, she’s mildly surprised at Sam’s reaction… Lucifer knows he’d seen riper bodies than this. _Then again,_ she supposes, _it’s probably different when the corpse is your own brother._ She leans forward, peering into the grave. It’s hard to tell in the shadows and from this angle, but Dean is looking better than she’d expected. Just over three months buried and as far as she can tell, he’s a little discolored, a little shriveled up, but he’s nowhere as far along the decomposition process as she’d thought he’d be. At least he hasn’t gone all bloated and squishy and covered with maggots having a field day. Abstractly, she wonders if there's anything left of Susanna's funeral garb.

“Sam!” She snaps. “We don’t have time for this. Hop to.”

For an instant, it’s almost as though she’d said the wrong thing. A flinch shudders through Sam’s frame and he shrinks from her. Then he straightens and she sees the moment he composes himself, stuffs it all down. He glances up at her.

“This is wrong,” he says.

She looks up at him. “What? You mean Dean being in the truck?” She shrugs. “It’s really your own loss. You wouldn’t let me drive that sweet ride of yours.”

“It’s Dean’s car,” Sam says instantly. “I was just taking care of it. I promised I would. I should’ve done a better job. He’s gonna be so pissed. I should clean it up…” He trails off as she places a palm on the center of his chest.

“Stop,” she interrupts him. “Focus here. First things first,” she searches Sam’s eyes for understanding, for some sign he’s still with her. He fixes his gaze. “First, you gotta clean him up, make sure there’s no maggots in his ears and nose and all that jazz. Dean can’t have a useless, rotting vessel now can we?”

Sam shakes his head, clenches his jaw. There’s a hard swallow and then: “Would you pull that tarp over?” He doesn’t say _please_ even though she half expects him to.

She does and Sam lifts Dean onto the blue plastic material. He climbs out, wraps the corpse as tenderly as any infant, and rises to his feet. After a long moment, he looks up from Dean’s swaddled corpse and meets her gaze with deadened eyes.

“Could…” his voice is raw, hopeless. “D’you mind cleaning up and meeting me at the shack. I can’t…”

She closes the gap between them, placing her hand on his forearm. Corded muscle and ridged veins tremble beneath her fingers. "Consider it done,” she tells him gently. “You go on ahead. I’ll walk.”

**::: ::: :::**

Sam drives Dean to the old empty shack he'd holed up in months ago. Before Ruby took him under her wing and showed him his true potential. Once inside, he lights a few of the candle-stumps left from his last stay there and surveys the main room.

Even at first glance, it’s clear that nobody's been there in the interim except a few mice— probably because he’d been nice enough to leave behind a half-eaten pizza that’s since gone moldy. But that doesn’t stop him from thoroughly searching and securing the premises. He isn’t going to take any chances.

He tosses what’s left of the meal out the door, and uses the torn-off cardboard lid from the box to roughly sweep a portion of the floor clear before going back to car.

He carries his brother through the door, lays him down on the wood floor in front of the fireplace, setting Dean’s head down as gently as he can. No sense in giving Dean a concussion on top of everything else. He brings the votive candles closer and kneels on the cleared floor. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Sam uses his knife to cut open the tarp. He starts with the legs, noting where the denim is saturated — mostly the left thigh — with old blood despite the cleaning, stitching, and fresh clothes he’d given his brother before burial, and then works his way up Dean's torso, finally cutting through the heavy fabric covering his head. A bit of loose earth falls out of Dean's hair, and Sam brushes his fingers through it, fingers shaking. He's careful not to touch Dean's skin. He's not ready for that yet.

 _He looks older_ , Sam thinks. And it's a ridiculous thought, but it’s the first he has. Dean's skin is wrinkled and leathery, deep grooves around his eyes and mouth. As he gently cuts the shirt off of his brother's torso, the sight of vertical slashes swollen and barely being held together with catgut makes his breath catch — instantly, in his mind’s ear, he can hear his brother’s agonizing screams mixed with Lilith's laughter.

He clenches his hands into fists, closes his eyes, and centers himself before he loses control. Exhaling, he reopens his eyes, reaches out and carefully runs his finger along one of the cuts. He hadn’t remembered them being so distinctive and clean; his memory distorted by the sheer quantity of blood and the sounds of hounds snarling. Even in the dim light, he can see the discoloration of Dean’s skin, the dark purpling of his back, where all the blood has pooled. _Effects of post-mortem_ , he tells himself. It's worse once he gets Dean’s jeans off.

Sam cleans his brother methodically, carefully, and as gently as he can, barely even flinching when a maggot squirms out from an opening in the large gash across his brother’s thigh. Sam had stitched it as best he could at the time but he remembers he’d been sloppy. He'd barely been able to see, eyes filling with tears faster than he could blink.

Now his eyes are dry. This isn't the time for sorrow. He has a job to do. He has to get Dean’s body ready for tomorrow because tomorrow… tomorrow everything will be okay again. It's nearly midnight, according to the old wall clock somebody left behind in the abandoned house — it’s still running, somehow.

Sam runs the soaked cloth over Dean’s forehead, his brother’s skin absorbing the oil. Ruby had told him what it was, but he can't remember. Something she’d prepared with herbs and animal remains, but it's enchanted and will restore Dean to whatever his state had been before the moment of death, even replenishing the gallon or two of blood Dean’d lost. Ruby promised him her spell would keep working, but it's so slow-moving it's still a surprise when it does.

He goes to his duffel and pulls out the spool of catgut and thick sickle-shaped needle he needs to fix the stitches and gets to work. He makes sure the wounds are completely clean before sealing the skin neatly, stitches tight and small, and redresses Dean into a t-shirt and jeans. He doesn’t bother with the multiple layers his brother usually wears; there’s no sense in manhandling a deadweight and ripping out fresh stitches.

When he's done all he can, he sits back on his heels. His legs and arms feel shaky and he realizes he hasn't had anything to eat or drink all day. He's not sure how long he stays there; watching his brother sleep, but it's a long time.

Ruby comes back at some point. "You should get some rest. You need your strength for tomorrow.” She pauses. “Or should I say today?”

"I'll be fine."

"You haven't had anything to drink."

"I know."

Ruby makes an annoyed-sounding huff. "And how exactly are you planning to take down Alastair without enough fuel?"

"I have enough."

"No, Sam. You don't."

"I took down the last three." He meets her gaze. "And a whole lot of others."

"Yeah and Alastair's stronger than all of them put together."

"Just give me some more time."

"You've been here all night. You only have twelve hours left before the fight." She puts her hand on his shoulder. "Just come with me for five minutes." She pauses. “Just five minutes,” her voice is gentle. “I swear.”

"No."

"Sam—"

"Do you have any idea what Dean would say if he knew I was doing this?" Sam shakes his head and watches his brother. If he lets his vision go blurry enough he can almost see Dean breathing. "I can't do this with him here."

"He's not here. Not really. This is just his body." She moves closer to Sam, cups her small hand under his chin, trying to turn his face towards her. "You know that, right?"

"I don't want him to see."

"He won't see. He's dead! And he's going to stay that way if you don't do what you need to do to win."

Sam ignores her, and watches Dean's ribs move up and down ever so slightly. "Leave."

"No. Sam—"

Sam grabs her with his mind and hurtles her across the room, sending her crashing out through the window.

**::: ::: :::**

“I just need a little,” Ruby says, holding up one of the syringes she’d stolen from the hospital. The cuts and bruises on her face and shoulders from smashing through the window are already fully healed.

Lilith watches her warily, big blue child eyes feigning innocence. Ruby exhales sharply and plays along with the game.

“It’ll only stick for a second,” Ruby says, her voice flat and devoid of any real reassurance. “I promise you’ll get a lollipop if you’re good.”

Lilith blinks at her. “I like licorice better.”

Ruby makes a face. “Licorice is gross,” she says and freezes instantly, terrified she’s offended Hell's Queen in some way.

Instead of incinerating her, Lilith only laughs, high and discordant and shrill. “They’re Dean’s favorite.” She sobers, pushes out her lower lip into a pout. “Not anymore, though. They look too much like insides.” A pause. “Taste like insides too.” She holds out her arm.

Wordlessly, Ruby ties off the strip of rubber around the girl’s upper arm. Lilith’s veins are thin, delicate, strands of blue running just beneath the flesh, as she rests the needle against the tissue. Pressing harder, Ruby breaks through the skin and, pulling off the tourniquet, she slowly fills the syringe. Setting the maroon-filled vial into the silk-inlaid mahogany box Lilith’s given her; she picks up another and repeats the procedure. There are five in all.

As Ruby closes the lid and latches the tiny clasp, she sees Lilith out of the corner of her eye peer down at the pinprick wound in the bend of her arm, catches a bead of blood on her forefinger and brings it to her mouth, sucking it off. Lilith smiles around her finger, the tip of it still caught in her teeth as Ruby straightens. She withdraws it and reaches out with her hand to pull a shard of glass from the top of Ruby’s shoulder.

It comes away slick with dark glossy maroon and the wound slowly closes, muscle, sinew mending. Lilith holds it up to the light, looking into the lurid redness as it throws shadows around her.

“That should be enough,” she says, her eyes rolling white for a heartbeat. "Give him these and he'll be ours for good."

Ruby wants to believe Lilith. She's the first, the wisest of them all. But she can't stop herself from saying "I hope you're right."

Lilith wipes the sharp piece of glass clean on her skirt as she stands. She smears the palms of her hands against her sides, leaving streaks of red and brown dirt. "I am. There's no going back for him after this."

"But his brother—"

"Dean’s played his part. He was the beginning, and Sam's the end. We only have five seals left to break." She takes Ruby's hand and squeezes it with her sticky fingers. "Have faith. Sam will do what he needs to do."

"How can you be so sure?" Ruby asks, looking into her borrowed child's eyes.

Lilith runs her small thumb over the back of Ruby's hand. "Because our Father chose Sam. Just like he chose me, and just like he chose you." She lets go of Ruby's hand and spins on her heel, poofy dress flaring out at the sides. "Stop worrying, silly," she says as she starts to skip away. "We're going to save the world."

**::: ::: :::**


	9. Chapter 9

When the sun starts to rise, guilt at having chased away his only ally makes him leave Dean, and step outside. Ruby is sitting on the porch holding a small black box.

"I'm sorry,” he says.

"You're an idiot," she says, not looking at him.

Sam wipes at his brow absently. There's a thin sheen of sweat forming, and when he brings his hand back down, it's shaking. He stares at his trembling fingers like they've betrayed him. It's ironic that the pursuit of power makes him this weak so often. "We only have a few hours. We need to find a crossroads demon. Or eight."

"And risk you being high as a kite for this?" she scoffs. "No."

"But Ruby, I—"

"Lucky for you, I knew you were going to be difficult." She stands and holds out the small box. "And got you a secret weapon."

Sam takes it from her carefully and flips open the lid. The box is made of dark mahogany, the inside lined with white silk, and it holds five syringes, filled with blood.

"What's this?" he asks, even though he can smell the sulfur stink through the glass.

"High-quality stuff."

"How high?"

"Higher than Alastair."

Sam swallows. "How'd you get this?"

"Same way I do everything," she says, avoiding the question. "You've got supporters in every level of Hell, Sam. I just told them what they wanted to hear."

"And what was that?" Sam's voice comes out more of a snarl than he intended, but he can't help it. The itching in his skin is getting worse and he can't stop staring at the contents of the box. He can practically taste the copper-sulfur sting on his tongue. He's _salivating_.

"That maybe, if they play ball, after it's all said and done, you'll step up to bat." She cocks her head to the side. "Too many baseball metaphors?"

Sam thinks for a moment about prying into her thoughts, about forcing her to tell him the truth, because he knows she's lying. But then he wonders what good it would do. He's so close to the end, he's so close to freeing Dean, and if she won't tell him how she got the box, then it’s because something in his ethical code wouldn't like the answer.

But his damn morals are the reason Dean went to Hell in the first place.

"Okay then," Sam says picking up one of the syringes. He lines the needle up to the vein right by the bend of his arm. It's swollen, offering itself up and the pinch of the needle piercing his skin doesn't bother him in the least.

"Wait,” Ruby says, closing her small fingers over his before he has a chance to push down on the plunger. "Don't give yourself all of it at once. A little at a time okay?"

"But I thought you said—"

"This won't make you see pretty colors for more than a few seconds, but it's strong, Sam. As close to pure hellfire as you can get. It'll send you into overdrive if you don't give yourself time to adjust." She shrugs. "Go too quickly and you might explode."

"Oh good."

Ruby lets go of Sam's hand. "Take it real slow. Eighth of a syringe at first. Wait a few minutes, see what happens." There's no need to remind him of what can go wrong when he takes more than he can handle. He might not admit it, but she knows he still hasn't recovered fully — still sees things that aren't there, and what he's about to inject is even stronger.

Sam nods and pushes down gently on the plunger. The blood burns as it goes in and he sucks in an inhale as he feels it traveling up his arm, traveling along the vein over the curve of his bicep, through his chest, into his heart where it rattles against the ventricle-walls, resonating like an echo chamber.

 _I should explode_ , Sam thinks, the pressure inside of him building and building until the next pump of his heart sends the blood out into the rest of him, flooding his whole being with an immediate, intoxicating feeling of strength. His vision sharpens and he can see _everything_.

Ruby's true face looks up him with a large jagged gash for a mouth and gaping holes for eyes and there's something desperate there, like her life depends on what's happening right now. He looks from her to the wall beyond and sees a colony of termites living deep inside one of the planks near to the ground. The cabin was built from trees, and Sam can see them, knows where they stood and for how long and if he thinks about it he can see them growing and then shrinking back into saplings. His gaze falls on the window and he sees the dark shape of Dean's body on the floor and there's nothing inside, it's completely empty and that knowledge — that _certainty_ — that his brother really is gone makes him angry. Furious. He sees himself pulling the Earth apart, reaching down into Hell and plucking Dean's soul out and he wants it so badly the ground at his feet starts to glow.

"Easy," Ruby says, backing away from the molten soil. "You've got to hold this all in until the fight. Don't waste any of it." She looks into his eyes, searching for something — comprehension, maybe, or sanity.

It's difficult, but Sam pulls his power back deep inside himself and takes a deep shuddering breath as the ground fades back to dusty brown.

"Wait ten minutes, take some more," Ruby says, holding her hand out for the syringe. After a few seconds of delay on Sam's part, she arches her eyebrow and her mouth twists in disapproval.

Reluctantly, Sam hands it back, and reminds himself again why he's listening to her. She's brought him this far, hasn’t led him wrong. Tonight, Dean will be free. Dean will be alive again and no matter what Bela said, they'll find away to fix whatever Hell to did him. Everything Sam did, every drop of blood, every round in the cage, every punch, every kill — it'll all have been worth it.

The time between doses passes, though halfway through the second syringe Sam can't tell minutes apart from seconds or hours anymore. The visions come quickly and fade just as fast, but there's a truth to them that sets Sam's teeth on edge. Every injection peels back the skin of the world, showing him all the bone and filth underneath, and he keeps seeing deeper, more than his mind wants to hold. There's an endless well of pain beneath his feet, all the billions of souls in Hell, and if he closes his eyes he can hear them and if he doesn't shut them out fast enough he can hear Dean's voice mixed in with the others calling his name. It's a cry for help, an accusation, a threat.

Sam doesn't want to hear any more and he stumbles back into the cabin. It's a mistake, because he can still hear Hell and worse yet he can see Dean's body. He sees how empty it is, how hollow and no matter how much he longs for it, it won't sit up and smile at him. It just lies there, rotting in reverse, Ruby's magic knitting together Dean's cells, a miniature flesh-loom.

His sorrow wells up, unbidden, and Sam has to force himself to look away from Dean's hollowed shell. _Tonight_ , he reminds himself, _tonight_ , he will win. He has to. He'll do anything. Whatever it takes.

Ruby hands him the last syringe back. He's down to the last dose. Sam lines up the needle, pushes the liquid fire into his veins and closes his eyes, listening to the souls beneath him raise their voices in a fevered pitch. He falls to his knees and forces his eyes open. The wailing chorus grows louder and he can see them again — a seething morass of damned souls as black as their eyes.

"Dean," he says, and the word spills out of him in fat yellow drops, melting through the floorboards like lava. The mass of souls undulates as the word seeps into them, their cries turning to peals of laughter. In the center of the darkness a light forms, a small star in an otherwise empty universe and Sam reaches for it, because he knows what it is, _who_ it is. Sam reaches down, fingers sliding through the aged wood like it's water. The damned souls move away from his touch as the ball of light floats higher, towards his outstretched hands. Dean's soul is shining and beautiful and untouched by Hell and Sam picks it up, cups it in both palms.

"Let's talk strategy," Ruby says. Her voice pulls Sam out of his reverie and the pureness of Dean's soul turns to ash in his hands.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam’s stubborn and won’t let Ruby touch Dean’s corpse. Dean’s better, his color a nearly imperceptible shade warmer, his chest rising and falling, too slow and measured to be truly alive. She watches Sam lift Dean’s blanket-wrapped form and is struck by how effortless it is for Sam. Sam cradles Dean against his chest, one arm wrapped around Dean’s back, the other hooked under bent legs.

Sam slides Dean carefully onto the back seat of the Ford pickup she’s borrowed from the motel parking lot. He arranges Dean’s feet so the door won’t hit them when he shuts it and his brother looks as comfortable as a six-foot-one guy can possibly be sprawled on the backseat. The blanket covers Dean's body but leaves his head exposed. Sam had insisted Dean be allowed to breathe and Ruby didn't feel like arguing. He wasn't alive yet in the strictest sense of the word, but if Sam wanted to think so, well, there wasn't any harm in it. Sam stands there for a few seconds, hand resting loosely against the car, eyes focused on his brother and then pulls away with a full-body shudder. He closes the door with a bit more force than necessary and slides into the passenger's seat. She doesn't even have to convince him to let her drive this time.

When she climbs in next to him, she can tell he’s still uncomfortable, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about it. She reaches out, squeezes Sam’s knee. “It’ll be over soon. Ready for the endgame?”

Sam meets her gaze — there are little pinpricks of gold in his black irises — and nods.

**::: ::: :::**

The atmosphere in the arena is different tonight. The moment she and Sam enter the main room, she can feel it. The air itself feels different. Normally it's charged with anticipation, bloodlust of the sort only demons can truly appreciate, but tonight… tonight it feels like a temple. Something important is happening, and every wretched soul in here knows it. The seats are packed, but every demon is sitting still, focused on the cage with respect and a hint of fear etched on each of their faces.

Lilith is waiting for them and she's the only one who speaks when they enter the cage: "Took you long enough."

"Sorry," Ruby says, eyes downcast. "We didn't want to attract attention." She nods towards Sam, indicating he should set Dean down.

Sam doesn't react. His eyes are locked on Lilith, and as Ruby watches they shift from gold-flecked black to a brighter shade of yellow. His rage is a tangible thing; she can feel it churning inside of him, leaving trails of high-definition black in his veins where it travels from his heart to his fingers.

If she doesn't get him back on track, this could all end very quickly and very badly for all involved. "Sam," she says.

But his eyes are still focused on Lilith, still growing brighter.

Lilith grins up at him, all unaffected little girl, and looks to Ruby. "Is there a problem?"

"No," Ruby says. She moves next to Sam and snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Sam!"

The sound draws his attention and he looks at her, the yellow retreating from his pupils.

"You need to put Dean down now so Lilith can bring him back."

A slight flare of his nostrils is the only reaction she gets, but it's enough. Sam understands, and he kneels down, laying Dean on the floor of the cage as gently as he can. Like it matters.

"You don't look so good, Sam," Lilith says. "You sure you're up for this?"

Anger tinges Sam's cheeks and ears. "Yes."

"Okie dokie," Lilith says.

 _Is he ready?_ Lilith asks Ruby. Her voice echoes in Ruby's head, seeking out its own answer.

_More than ready._

**::: ::: :::**

Sam can't look away from Dean's body. Although Dean’d been slowly regaining some color over the past couple of hours, he looks so hideously gray in the bright fluorescent arena lights that Sam wonders if Ruby’s potion is even working.

Lilith smiles beatifically at Sam and rises up on her tiptoes to trace her fingers against his cheek.

He doesn't flinch away, or strike out, or do anything else he wants to do to the demon queen, because this is it. This is Dean's freedom, within reach, and Sam isn't going to let his own pride fuck that up. He consoles himself and the power screaming inside of him to rend and tear her apart that he will. When the time is right.

Lilith gives him a knowing wink and then turns away from him, kneeling down next to Dean. She scoops up his torso and drags him, little arms wrapped around his shoulders, to the edge of the cage, laying him down next to the warded referee box. It's an odd sight, a little girl moving a full-grown man so easily.

Lilith spins around, white dress billowing, and claps her hands, excited. "Now for the fun part!"

Her eyes glow bone-white and she begins to chant in a language Sam's never heard before. Something old and guttural.

The air wavers, and he's pretty sure it’s not just in his head. There's a sound like rustling dead leaves and then a slim ancient man in a suit appears. A reaper. Lilith snaps her fingers and what looks like a leash made of shadows appears around the old man's neck. She wraps the leash around her wrist and walks up to the old man and hisses, "Namm tarr."

The old man kneels next to Dean and lays his hand on his forehead. He gives Lilith one last withering look over his shoulder and then Dean's body begins to glow. The glow spreads from Dean's head down his body and into his hands and then he's gasping for air.

He's alive.

Sam's heart lurches and he stumbles forward, needing to be at his brother's side.

"No," Lilith says, and Sam stops in his tracks, just inches away from a nearly invisible barrier in the air. She reaches her fingers out and touches the air between herself and Sam. Between Dean and Sam. It shimmers red and gold, a web made of sigils that look like a mishmash of runes, hieroglyphs and Enochian. "You cross this line before the match is over and Dean will go right back down the hole. He's here as an incentive." She grins that little-girl grin. "So you remember why you're fighting."

"Like I'd ever forget," Sam growls.

The reaper eyes him, completely uninterested, and turns to Lilith questioningly. She snaps her fingers again and his leash disappears. A moment later, so does he.

"Dean—" Sam says, because his brother is right there. He's alive. And Sam needs to know that it's real, that he's not just seeing things. "Dean, it gonna be okay."

Dean's eyes flutter open and he turns his head slow, like it hurts to move, like he doesn’t have full control of his body. Through half-lidded, pain-glazed eyes he sees Sam and his mouth opens. He speaks, or tries to, but no sound comes out, just a ragged breath.

"It's almost over," Sam tells him.

"Cocky," says a new voice, manifesting just feet away from Sam.

The audience cheers wildly, and Sam tears himself away from Dean to find his new opponent smiling at him. A shark's smile, all teeth and hunger.

"I'm Alastair, Dean's teacher. It's a real pleasure to meet you, Sam. I've heard so much about you."

There's a moan from Dean, and when Sam turns back, Dean's on his side, rolling himself onto hands and knees, clearly in pain at the movements. His terrified eyes are fixed on the newcomer.

Alastair raises his hand and waves at Dean, nothing more than a wiggle of his fingers.

Dean fumbles and pushes himself to sitting or tries to. His shaky arms can't support him, and he collapses back onto the mat with a soft grunt that trails into a whimper.

Sam's first instinct is to run to his injured brother’s side, but he remembers the barrier, and Lilith's words, and can't do a thing but watch as Lilith goes to Dean instead and grabs his chin with her small hand, jerking his head up.

"Shhh," she says, finger to her lips. "You be a good boy, now, okay? Don't want to make mommy mad, do you?"

Dean shakes his head as much as he can in her hold and clenches his eyes shut. His whole body is trembling. He knows who she is, knows it on a level Sam can't even imagine, and at that moment Sam knows that death isn't enough for Lilith. He's not just going to kill her; he's going to make her scream loud enough for all of Hell to hear. He's going to make her _beg_ for death.

"Lots of potential," Alastair says, pointing a long bony finger in Dean's direction. "But he doesn't have the focus. Too distracted by his memories… memories of you." He laughs to himself. "Well, the few he has left anyway."

"What do you—"

An eardrum-piercing sound cuts off Sam's question and Lilith smiles wide when he stares at her. She's holding an innocuous looking whistle, hanging from a chain around her neck. "Time to play!" She says. "Wait until I say 'Go' though."

Incredulously, Sam watches her as she climbs into the Plexiglas box and hoists herself up onto the seat, legs dangling off the edge. Once comfortably seated she throws her arms upwards with a " _Go_!"

Alastair rumbles another laugh and thrusts out his hand. Sam can feel the power push into him, but he holds his ground, and doesn't give an inch.

"Impressive," the demon says. "Dean told me you were an overachiever."

Sam gets ready to strike back, but his focus falters. Dean's huddled form draws Sam's attention every few seconds and Sam wants to get his brother out of here and fix whatever Hell had done. His rage has been rolled under by panic — the way Dean had followed every command of Lilith's obediently, too broken to even look her in the eyes, the way he'd moved with the agonizing slowness of torn muscles. This Dean is broken in ways Sam can't even begin to understand.

Alastair whistles sharply, and Sam turns back to face him. The demon smirks and his eyes bleed milky white. "Dean's looking well, don't you think?"

Sam's rage comes flaring back to life and he clenches his fist, feeling his power pool there, ready to lash out.

"Nuh-uh," Alastair says, wagging one long finger back and forth. "You hit _me_ with that, and it’ll hit everything in this ring. "Me. You.” A pause. “Your dear brother. Wouldn't want that, now would we?" He huffs a laugh. "I mean, you'd be fine, I'm sure, and we both know I can take a licking. But him?" He shrugs and starts to walk towards Dean.

"No," Sam says, stepping between Dean and Alastair. "Don’t you dare touch him.”

Alastair laughs again, loudly. "Bit late for that, I’m afraid. I’ve already touched him in every way you can imagine." He smiles a toothy grin and continues. "Dean was _mine_. For _decades_.” Another pause. “He was my star pupil. Top of his class." The demon takes a few steps closer, rises on the balls of his feet, and peers at Dean over Sam's shoulder. "No. The only one that can hurt him today is you."

A flare of fury runs through Sam and he snarls, "You really think my self-control is that shitty?"

Alastair chuckles and holds up his hands in a full body shrug as he turns away from Sam. "That's the popular opinion."

"I won't hurt my brother," Sam says. "But I'm going to tear you apart. He lets raw power pool in his fingertips, enough that he can see a flicker of gold around the edges of his vision. The injections Ruby gave him are so potent he feels like he could snuff Alastair out in two seconds flat. He raises his hand, closes his fingers and begins to squeeze Alastair's soul. Dean starts to scream. Instantly, Sam stops, whips his head around, and watches in horror as Dean cowers, covering his face with his hands, still making agonized sounds.

"Oh that was a bad one." Alastair coughs, a puff of smoke coming from his mouth before it curves into a grin. "An early one, too."

"What are you talking about?" Sam says and he can barely hear his own voice over the pounding in his ears. He wants to grab Alastair, sink teeth into his throat, and drink him down as he burns through his soul, because he can. He'd felt the demon's soul start to give way in his grip. But Alastair’d done something, had bound Dean to himself in some way. "What did you do?"

"Hell is forgetting," Alastair says. "Can't be a human and survive down there. Not for long. Your brother held out a long time, too. Thirty years he held out, my blades cutting him to ribbons. Thirty years of crying your name until one day he finally figured out you weren't coming."

Sam's anger spikes, filling the air in the arena with pressure. The cage rattles, the door closest to Sam flies open violently, barely held on by one hinge, and two dozen of the demons in the audience directly behind him light up flash-bang white and die instantly. The survivors scramble away from their seats, moving into the aisles. They're too curious to leave.

"Oh yes. Admirable self control," Alastair says, winking at Sam.

Sam curls his fingers into fists, and digs his nails into his skin to keep from lashing out again. "What. Did. You. Do. To. Him?"

"You can hurt me," Alastair says. "But every time you do, Dean remembers something from when he was human. Those ... _special moments_ that made him the broken shell of a man he is today. That one right there—" The demon points at Dean, who’s turtled up, hands pressed against his eyes, ears, back bowed as he curls over his knees, breath hitching wetly. "—Is the night your mommy died. The night Daddy shoved you into his arms and made him stand in front of your burning house. He'd forgotten the smell of her flesh, the heat of the flames, the way your daddy screamed. Now he remembers, thanks to you."

"That happened because of Azazel!" Sam shouts. One of the huge overhead spotlights begins to sputter. "Because he killed her!"

"Yes. And he killed her because of _you_ ," Alastair says. He shakes his head. "It's incredible how many of his truly awful memories involve you." He walks closer to Sam. "I pulled them out of him one by one. Like a cancer. Made him what he should’ve become. But you just can't leave well enough alone, can you?"

"I'm not leaving him," Sam says, his gaze flicking to Dean. His brother is quiet, now, but he’s curled in on himself, pressed against the fencing, arms wrapped around his head, fingers laced behind his neck. And Sam hears Dad’s voice in his mind’s ear, all snarling marine-drill-sergeant: _Curl up and dig into the ground if you have to. Protect your face, your head, your neck._

"Because his life with you was so much better." Alastair grins up at Sam as he pulls back his arm, and lands a hard punch on Sam's jaw.

The impact rattles Sam's skull, blinding him for a few long seconds. He staggers back and hits the fence, head bouncing off the wire mesh. His gaze falls on Lilith, watching him from inside the warded referee box with a soft smile on her borrowed face. She's the picture of innocence — a girl of no more than eight with two blond pigtails and a white poofy dress, complete with scratchy tulle petticoat underneath.

Time slows, and a vision unfurls:

_Lilith is in a garden, a full-grown woman, nude and beautiful. She walks through lush green grass, under trees heavy with fruit. There's a man there, as naked as she is, and she mounts him. They move together, faces flush with lust, but when he tries to turn them over she refuses. The image shifts and Lilith is lying on the ground, underneath an apple tree. A large serpent slithers through the long blades of grass and wraps itself around her body, curving up between her breasts and down into her open mouth. As its tail disappears behind her lips, her eyes shift from sky-blue to a cloudy white._

We were all human once, _adult-Lilith tells Sam, speaking right into his thoughts._ All of us.

Sam blinks as Alastair’s fist charges into his stomach, a freight train of power that knocks his breath out of him for a moment. Still gasping, he counters the next punch and the next, and then grabs the demon by the throat.

Lilith, a little girl once again, jumps up and down, clapping her hands in excitement as Sam tightens his grip on Alastair's throat, lifting him off the floor. The demon's brow furrows in confusion as Sam slips into his mind.

There's a dark haze around Alastair's thoughts, centuries upon centuries of pain and bone and screams and power. Hell has redefined him, wrapped him in layers of violence and torture and Sam has to push deep until he finds what he's looking for.

Alastair was human once too. A father. A minister. A murderer. He’d killed his first man out of revenge, but then he got a taste for it. He’d known he was damned, and he embraced that fate wholly, running into Hell with a grin on his haggard face, but before that, before he’d shattered, he'd known hope and love.

_It was his daughter's death that broke him._

Sam reaches into the core of Alastair's mind, plucks out an image and pulls, holding it in front of the demon until it's all he can see: a young girl, with bright brown eyes and dark brown hair. Her smile is so full it brings dimples to her cheeks. Alastair's eyes widen and his façade starts to break. His carefully woven spell begins to falter.

And, then, Sam can see threads of spell-work running from Alastair's soul to Dean's. They're hair-thin strands of red light, stretched tight and ready to snap. Sam touches his fingertips to one after the other and they crumble away.

Dean lets out a surprised gasp of relief, and lowers his arms to stare up at Sam in wonder that shifts quickly to horror before burying his face again.

With no reason left to hold back, Sam sends a torrent of power into Alastair. Sam's veins are filled with fire and he welcomes it, lets the wrath burn through him until he can see it pushing against his skin — thick black ridges running down his arms, energy pooling in his hands, searing Alastair's skin. The power bursts out of Sam's fingertips as sulfurous yellow light, hungry and all consuming. It burns into Alastair, devouring flesh and bone alike. He screams and Sam digs into him deeper, clawing into the demon's soul. Then he rips him to shreds.

**::: ::: :::**


	10. Chapter 10

The lights explode in a shatter of electrical sparks and glass shards and there’s a soundless roar that pulls at Ruby's insides; she has to fight to remain in her meatsuit. There’s the high sound of ringing glass and she looks up in time to see a thick black plume of smoke surge out of the referee box. _Lilith_. Then darkness.

The few remaining lights are still humming, sickly yellow and anemic. Sam’s lathered with sweat and Ruby can see he’s still panting from the exertion but he’s steady.

He takes a few steps across the cage floor and crouches beside his brother’s cowering form.

She steps forward, scanning the carnage surrounding her. Dead. They’re all dead. Or cast back into Hell. _Same difference._ She looks back up at the cage, sees the bodies last worn by Alastair and Lilith. She steps around the bodies in the mosh pit surrounding the ring, and makes her way closer to him. She’s more than a little awed that she’s the only one untouched — either she’s far stronger than she thought or Sam has way more control than she’d ever conceived in her wildest imagination. She isn’t sure which possibility is more unnerving.

Sam cuts his gaze back at her and if she’d had breath, it’d have gotten caught up in her throat all over again at the sight of his eyes. As it is, she raises her arms, grips her fingers through the mesh of the cage above her head, and hauls herself onto the ledge of the mat. Dean’s curled up as small as his six-foot frame will allow, eyes clenched shut, but he still senses her true nature. He flinches, whimpers, and presses even harder against the fence beside him, hands clawing ineffectually at his nape. Whether he’s trying to seek comfort or will himself invisible, she can’t really tell.

Sam shifts closer, shielding his brother, futilely trying his best to soothe Dean’s distress, but Dean's shivering worsens at Sam's touch. After a few more seconds, Sam's hand stills, and he pulls it back, wrapping his arms around his knees as he watches his terrified brother.

“You should get him looked after,” Ruby says quietly. “Alastair really did a number on him.” She meets Sam’s strange gaze for a heartbeat and then jumps down from her perch and exits the arena without a backward glance.

**::: ::: :::**

In the wake of Ruby’s absence, the arena's silence settles around them along with the sulfur-heavy stench of the hundreds of dead. Alastair's glazed, lifeless eyes stare at Sam, surprise forever carved into his empty shell's features.

Sam feels little more than a small thrill of triumph as he surveys the carnage before turning back to his brother. He's done what he set out to do. Dean is free. He's _free_. All of this was worth it.

But the injections Ruby gave Sam haven't worn off, not even a little. The hellfire he'd used to kill Alastair still sears through his veins — he can feel that restless hunger and bloodlust coursing through him. He'll have to find a way to get it out of his system quickly, before Dean comes around. Maybe someday Dean will understand that Sam did what he had to do, but he won't ever accept him like this — a blood junkie, a vampire, a _monster_.

Gently, Sam leans over his knees, trying to evaluate the extent of the damage inflicted on his brother, inside and out. Dean still won’t look up, is still making his best threatened-armadillo impression. Sam thinks he can see a dark, sticky patch on the front of Dean's light-gray shirt..

"Your stitches," Sam says softly. "We've gotta get you cleaned up."

At the sound of Sam's voice, Dean flinches, but he doesn't turn his head. His hands squeeze the back of his neck, loosens, and tightens again but he doesn’t lower his arms, and it’s then Sam notices, under the bright glare of the lights, the dirt still wedged under Dean's fingernails. He silently chastises himself for not cleaning them.

"Dean," Sam says again, more quietly. "We have to fix your stitches." There’s so much more he needs to fix, but stitches are something he can start with.

His brother’s hands stop flexing, but Dean doesn’t budge.

 _After everything — Capital-H Hell, hellhounds, tonight… it's no wonder,_ Sam thinks. "Hey, it's okay," he says, laying his fingers carefully, feather-light, on Dean's shoulder. Dean's head bows down further at the touch, like he's expecting to be struck. A flare of anger sets Sam's teeth on edge as he remembers Alastair's bragging how thoroughly he'd broken Dean. "It's okay, Dean. You're safe now. Nothing’s bad going to happen to you. Look at me."

Dean huddles even smaller on himself, his body trembling.

Sam just wants to Dean to know he's safe, that he's not in Hell anymore. "Look at me," he says again. His voice echoes oddly, even to his own ears, as he wills Dean to respond.

Dean's head snaps up, eyes wide open and he stares at Sam, who gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

Instead of relaxing, Dean makes a sharp frightened sound.

Sam lifts his other hand and Dean scrambles away from him, scrabbling and clutching the mesh of the cage, tucking on himself. He's still staring at Sam, eyes terrified, whites showing.

Sam raises his hands. "No, no, Dean— it's okay. It's me, Sam." He edges closer.

Dean whimpers, brings shaking hands up in a gesture of surrender. His arms vibrate harder as Sam moves towards him.

"It's just me," Sam says, swallowing down the hard lump in his throat. "Nobody's gonna hurt you. Not ever again. I swear." The power inside of him thrums through his veins in agreement. He reaches a hand down to Dean, who looks like he's praying for the ground to swallow him whole.

A bright glint in the polished metal of the referee's box-frame catches Sam's attention as he leans down, and he turns to the left to see his reflection, his eyes burning with yellow fire.

Horrified, Sam stumbles back, turning away from Dean.

He hears his brother's panicked gasps as Dean lunges to his feet and bolts for freedom, all adrenaline. The ruined cage door clatters as it bounces in its frame.

**::: ::: :::**

She’s about ten blocks away when her phone buzzes in her pocket. She thinks of ignoring it when it vibrates again, hard and insistent against her hipbone. Exhaling, she extracts it from her jeans pocket and answers it, her voice coming out sharp and impatient. Sam’s on the other end, babbling something about how Dean’d finally taken one good look at his face and bolted, shredded thigh and mangled core muscles notwithstanding. There were noises about how he couldn’t find Dean and would she please, please help.

She almost says no, almost tells Sam that he’s on his own, when something stops her. She can hear Sam breathing on the other end, wet and ragged. _You must be getting soft in your old age_ , she scolds herself. “I’m on my way,” she tells him as she heads back the way she came.

**::: ::: :::**

Sam meets her at the fire exit that opens into the back alleyway. The lower half of his face — the bit of it she can see beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, at least — is tear-stained. He doesn’t yell at her, doesn’t cry about her not telling him his eyes had changed color. He silently lets her in, shuts the door behind him and exhales. “He’s terrified of me.”

Ruby blinks at him. _Well, what d’you want me to do about it? Demon here, remember?_

Sam exhales again, continues as though she’d spoken the words aloud. “Maybe you could convince him or something? Tell him he’s not in Hell anymore. He’s scared and hurt and won’t let me anywhere near him. I don’t know what else to do.”

It’s Ruby’s turn to blow out a slow breath of oxygen she doesn’t need or use. The idea is one of the stupidest she’d ever heard. _Sure, just send a demon to tell the guy fresh out of Hell he’s safe. That’ll really go over well_. But, then again, it’s so idiotic it just might work. “Alright,” she agrees and Sam smiles gratefully at her.

She steps into the darkened, deserted arena. It looks like a blast zone.

“Lights make it worse,” Sam informs her.

 _Right. And so do noises and soft, fluffy puppies,_ she thinks but doesn’t verbalize.

The cage, chairs, are all still there but the bodies have all been removed. There’s the sound of someone breathing loudly, harshly, as though he’s been running a marathon and can’t quite catch his breath, and Ruby follows it. She senses the sweat, blood, and sulfur that still pervade the space. It is so overwhelming that she can almost taste it in the back of her throat and she thinks she understands why Sam’s brother is choosing to hide here. For a soul ripped out of Hell, for a soul who hadn’t had time to process reality, this is a pretty damn close substitute. _Hell, even for someone like herself who’d been around the block for a while, the arena felt a little like home, if she was honest_. She picks up on the scent of Dean’s sweat and his pungent, urinal terror and hones in on it.

She finds him sitting on the floor, crammed up in the narrow footwell between two rows of seats. She doesn’t go to him, remaining crouched at the end of the row, as far from him as one can get. In the red glow of the exit sign, he looks pale, sick, his face slicked with feverish sweat.

Dean closes his eyes and bows his head in complete submission. The silence stretches between them. Then: “Go ahead,” Dean says hoarsely, his tone flat and listless. He’s rubbing his hand against his chest, the other going to his leg. There’s a dark patch seeping through his jeans as well. “Do whatever you want. I know you’re a demon.” He shifts, winces at the movement. “I can see your face, so you can stop pretending.”

She doesn’t bother lying. There’s no point in it. “Yeah,” she says, “I am,” and lets her eyes flip black. Dean doesn’t flinch. If anything, he straightens, stiffens, visibly tamping down his emotions, but doesn’t uncoil. She watches his expression go blank. Alastair’d trained him well. “But I’m not here to torture you or be tortured,” she says softly. “It’s over.”

He doesn’t show any sign he’s heard, understood.

She waits a beat. “This is real,” she tells him. She’s not about to try to convince or sway him to believe he’s not in Hell; she can already see that it’d be a losing battle. Instead she settles for confirming whatever he believes to be reality.

Dean doesn’t answer her, presses his hand against his chest and grimaces. Fresh blood steeps through his shirt. He sways where he’s sitting, braces himself against the back of the seat behind him, and steadies, his physical state and the strain of being hyperaware clearly wearing on him.

“I can knock you out...” she offers, slowly, gently. “Put you to sleep for a little while. Bet you’d like that.” She pauses, allowing her words to fill the space between them. “Shut it all off for a bit. Regroup. You’ve been through a lot, Dean Winchester.”

She can tell he’s tempted.

“What’s the catch?” His voice is rough, ragged. “There’s always a catch.”

“There isn’t one.”

“You’re lying,” he says, conviction filling his tone. “You want something. You always want something. So tell me. What’s the catch?”

She gets the sense that he isn’t talking about her specifically, that she’s somehow lumped up with Alastair and Lilith and Meg and Bela and whoever else shredded him down there. There's no use repeating that there isn’t a catch, there’s no loopholes, even if it’s partly true. She decides to give him the truth. It’s cruel enough anyways: “Everything stays the same when you wake up.”

“That’s it?”

She nods. “No rack. No knife in your hand,” she pauses. “But nothing will change either. Everything will be exactly the way it is and it’ll be up to you to decide if it’s real. What'll it be?”

Dean nods, swallows, visibly weighing all of his options, and she gets a glimpse into what once made him the strategist of the pair. “So,” he grates. “Will Sam still be here? I mean…”

“Yes,” she says softly. “Sam will still be here. Yellow-eyes and all. Those are permanent, y’know.” She pauses, doesn’t tell him Sam isn’t possessed, isn’t a mirage — it’s not worth it, not when his hold on reality is so tenuous. “Like I said. Nothing changes.” She exhales, goes in for the kill. “It’s a pretty sweet deal for someone who jump-started the apocalypse if you ask me.”

“What?” Dean’s voice gets lost somewhere in his throat, comes out in a wheeze. “What did you say?”

“You said there was always a catch,” she holds her hand to her face, pretends to study her nails. She flicks her eyes — her real ones, all liquid black — over her bent fingers at him. “That was the catch for stepping off the rack. You were the first seal, Dean — the righteous man who started torturing souls just to save his own hide because he couldn’t hack it — and now the world’s on the fast track to an apocalypse. Once your brother frees Lucifer from his cage — and you better bet your ass Sam will break open that cage — the world will fall. And all of it will be on you.”

“Y-you’re lying,” Dean stammers, less convinced this time.

“Now, why would I lie about something like that?” She rises to her feet. “You of all people should know better.” She pauses. “How about that nap? No nightmares. No flashbacks. No pain or meathooks. Just sleep.”

His eyes close and he lowers his head, clasping his hands loosely in his lap. It’s a yes. _In the grand scheme, what is one more concession?_ She can feel his defeat, smell his despair rolling off him in waves. The self-loathing is intoxicating. She goes to him, crouches, and cups her hand against his damp temple. "You broke the first seal, Dean. And Sam will break the last." A gentle nudge of energy and Dean's out. She catches him as he lists forward, wrapping her arms around him as his head lolls, bracing it against her shoulder. She tips her face towards his, bringing her mouth close to his ear, “and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it.”

There’s a low sound and she looks up to see Sam standing in the aisle, still hooded and hunched on himself as though he’s a scolded child tentatively asking his parents if he’s free from time-out yet and that he’s really, really sorry for whatever he’d done.

“He okay?” He whispers, his voice loud in the silence, as he makes his way towards them.

“For now,” she tells him as he squats beside her, hands shifting, fingers twitching, searching for something to fidget with… or maybe jonesing for a fix. She tilts her chin to peer at Dean, still cradled against her the way Susanna had rested on her lap, once upon a time. “You ought to get him someplace comfortable while you can. He'll be out cold for the next sixteen hours.” She pauses, transfers Dean to Sam with the same care she once would’ve her daughter. “He’ll need it.” She turns back to Sam, and stands to go, her eyes flushed black. “Congratulations on your victory."

**::: ::: :::**

For few minutes, Sam stays crouched where he is, holding Dean — his brother’s body warm against his, watching the rise and fall of Dean’s chest with each inhalation and exhalation.

As carefully as he can, Sam picks up his brother and stands. Dean's head lolls, comes to a rest against Sam's chest, and Sam feels a surge of protectiveness mix in with his exhaustion and relief. There are two demons standing by the exit, the ones that helped clear the bodies out of the arena, and it makes Sam instinctively tighten his hold on Dean. When Sam nears, they step aside and bow their heads, whether in acknowledgement or fear Sam doesn’t know or care. It doesn't really matter. It's clear they won't make a move against him or Dean.

The air outside is brisk, the beginnings of autumn mixing in with the late summer. Sam crosses the parking lot until he reaches the Impala, gently maneuvers Dean into the back seat and covers him with the spare blanket they keep in the trunk. Dean makes a soft noise, a wince of pain or a whimper maybe, and Sam's fingers twitch. Alastair's dead, but he wasn't the only demon that hurt Dean.

Despite killing Alastair and the hundreds of others in the arena, there's one death Sam didn't feel. Lilith's. He can tell himself she died with the others; had seen the tiny, empty body she'd left behind, but with her level of power, even with the confusion that had been the end of the fight — he should have felt something more. And until he's sure she's dead, her name is still at the top of the list in the back of Sam's mind. There's others too — every other demon that laid a hand on Dean when he was in Hell, and once Dean is well enough, Sam's going to make it his mission to make sure every one of those names is checked off with a big bloody stroke.

Sam slides into the driver's seat and tries to decide where to go. He could rent a motel room, ward it, make sure Dean's wounds are clean, but then what? When Dean wakes up he'll try to make a run for it again. As much Sam hates to admit it, even to himself, they need help.

The phone rings three times before there's an answer, and at the sound of the man's voice on the other end, Sam's heart pangs.

_"Yeah?"_

"Hi Bobby."

_"Sam?"_

"Yeah, Bobby, it's me."

There's a pause, and a muffled curse. _"Why didn't you call me back the last fifty times I left a message? Been worried sick about you. I swear you—"_

"I got him out."

There's silence for a beat. When Bobby speaks again his voice is unsteady. _"What did you do?"_

"I— We need your help."

**::: ::: :::**


	11. Chapter 11

Bobby gives Sam an address, on the border of Wisconsin. Less than an hour drive from Pontiac. It's a safe house, communal hunter property for emergencies. Bobby can be there in three hours; Ellen'll get there soon after.

Sam gets to the safe house in forty minutes. It's small, musty, and full of old cobwebs strung across narrow doorways that catch in his face and hair, but the power works, and they have running water. Most importantly, it’s warded against every evil imaginable.

It doesn't occur to Sam until he's crossing the threshold for a second time, this time with Dean in his arms, that the wards don't seem to have any effect on him. His heart feels lighter at that realization and he thinks that maybe it means there's still a way back for him. Maybe he is still human.

But then he remembers how easily holy water had rolled off Azazel. Ruby could be held by devil's traps, but could Lilith, or Alastair? And even if they could be… Sam had killed Alastair. His power had broken right through the warded walls of the referee's box. So what did that make him?

Sam pushes the questions aside as he lays Dean down on the kitchen floor near a lamp. It's not ideal, but the only table in the house is far too short to hold Dean and he won't be able to reach the wounds properly if he puts him right on the couch.

Carefully, he cuts open Dean's shirt and sets to cleaning and redoing the busted stitches. Sam keeps himself calm until he stands, blood-and-pus-stained rag in hand. He makes it all the way to the sink before his temper flares. Three deep gashes, running up Dean's torso — ugly, jagged, infected and deep. Hellhounds did that. Lilith did that. The light bulb above his head shorts out.

Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, forcing him to relax. He can’t lose control like this. Not around Dean. He goes back to his brother, pulls out the dozen or so torn stitches and re-sews Dean together again before coating his brother’s wounds in antibiotic ointment and covering the wounds with fresh bandage. He carries Dean into the living room and makes sure he's in a good resting position on the couch. Then he spends a solid hour tidying up as best he can. He wants to get them food and water, certain Dean will be starving when he wakes up. But he can't leave Dean's side. Not yet. Maybe once the others are here.

There's a store of light bulbs in the pantry, and Sam replaces a few of the burnt-out ones, starting with the kitchen, then the living room and finally the bathroom. He regrets the last one immediately when he catches sight of his reflection. The yellow in his eyes hasn't dimmed. If anything, they look brighter than before. He fights the urge to shatter the mirror, and takes three deep breaths. He can't lose control like this anymore. Not with Dean here — almost _really_ here.

Remembering Ruby's drills, he begins to fill the sink with cold water. As soon as there's an inch-worth of water, he immerses his hands, letting the tiniest trickle of power flow out of them, focusing on the temperature.

The water heats within seconds, becoming warmer and warmer and then scalding. He pulls his reddened hands out, holding them over the surface, and pushes just a bit more energy into the now boiling liquid until it turns to steam.

The exercise is relaxing, and by the time he leaves the bathroom, he feels mostly in control of himself.

Until there’s a knock on the door.

Steeling himself, Sam crosses the floor. He throws a glance at Dean, resting on the couch. Dean looks almost peaceful, and if it weren't for the large bandages, Sam could fool himself into believing his brother was just sleeping off one too many drinks.

Sam swallows and opens the door, wishing one more time that the hideous color of his eyes would go away, but the second Bobby sees him, he knows they're still yellow. Still monstrous.

"Christo," Bobby says in way of greeting.

It doesn't hurt as much as Sam thought it might. "I'm not possessed." He points to the devil's trap beneath his feet and holds out his arms, palms open. "You can test me, if you want."

"You goddamn fool," Bobby says, as his mouth twists into even more of a frown.

Sam doesn't argue. He steps aside and gives Bobby a wide berth as he lets him in.

Bobby freezes, just a few feet from the entrance to the living room, staring at Dean's sleeping form.

"He's been through a lot," Sam says, voice soft. He's relatively sure Dean will stay out until whatever Ruby did to him wears off, but better to play it safe. "I don't know what'll happen when he wakes up, but I—" A splash of water cuts off the rest of his words.

Bobby glares at him, empty holy water flask in hand. "You don't know what'll happen? He's gonna take one look at your eyes and start screaming bloody murder. And that’s just a conservative estimate."

Sam's throat clamps shut and he nods stiffly. Then he chokes out. "Yeah, that part happened already."

Bobby grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him hard. "How could you do this to yourself? You think this is what Dean wanted? Your brother traded his _soul_ for you and this is how you repay him? By going darkside?"

"He was in _Hell_ ," Sam snaps. His eyes feel wet, and he doesn't care. He doesn't even care that they're yellow anymore. Bobby can scream at him all he wants.

But Bobby doesn't say another word. He lets go of him, makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a snarl and turns on his heel. He grabs a chair and sits down next to Dean, carefully taking his hand.

When Ellen arrives, it's dawn, and the sky is a bleak grey. Sam waits for Bobby to open the door. Instead of letting Ellen in, Bobby steps outside with her. Sam hears Ellen's shout of disbelief, and when she does come in a few minutes later her eyes are wide. He thinks it looks more like sorrow than anger on her face when she walks closer to him. Then she slaps him on the cheek, hard.

She never does say hello.

Ellen sits on the edge of the wooden coffee table next to the couch, carding her fingers gently through Dean's hair. She and Bobby speak in hushed tones, like they're afraid to wake Dean. Or they don't want Sam to hear.

Sam sits in the cracked leather armchair near the doorway, as far away from them as he can get while still keeping a clear view of his brother. He hears bits and pieces of their conversation, and he can't ignore the shift in tone when Bobby's eyes flick to him for little more than a half-second.

"… But can we be sure?" Ellen asks, and Sam sees her pull out a small flask. She unscrews the cap, covers the opening with her finger and tilts it over, then, righting the container and setting it beside her, brings her fingertip to Dean's skin. Holy water. Nothing happens, and Ellen tucks her flask away again.

 _Satisfied?_ Sam thinks to himself, grimly. He looks over at Bobby, who's staring at the floorboards. After a while, Bobby leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms across his chest, like he's settling in for a nap. Ellen runs her fingers gently up and down Dean's arm, her chin resting on her other hand.

The exhaustion of the past couple of days catches up with Sam and he feels his head bob forward. Yellow eyes or not, he's still human enough to need sleep. His eyes refuse to close all the way, and a half-hour later he's just conscious enough to catch a glint of silver in Ellen's hand, something small and sharp.

In a heartbeat, Sam’s across the room, hand wrapped around Ellen's wrist. Her shocked gasp turns into a wince as he pushes his thumb hard into her tendon. She loses her grip on the blade and it falls into Sam's other hand.

Bobby startles awake, half out of his chair. When he sees the blade in Sam's hand, he freezes.

"It's silver," Ellen says unsteadily. "I was just gonna touch him with the hilt. No cuts. Just to make sure—"

"No more tests," Sam says, voice quavering from the effort of keeping his anger in check. It's hard, with all that violent energy inside of him. When he'd seen the blade in Ellen's hand, his first instinct had been to pull it away from her with his mind, which would have no doubt made her and Bobby look twice as scared as they did now. He'd stopped himself, but just barely. "Please,” he adds. “Dean's human."

"No human comes out of Hell untouched," Bobby says. He doesn't sound angry, just sad. "Sam, son… we've gotta know what we're dealing with. And it'll be a whole lot easier if we figure it out before he wakes up."

"He's human. That was part of the deal," Sam heads back to his chair in the corner, fingers wrapped tightly around the small knife.

"So you did make a deal."

"No. I fought for him. I killed for him. I played by their rules in their arena and I won. They voided his contract and brought him back human," Sam's voice is tight, his power simmering just underneath his skin. He tamps it down, squeezing the metal handle of the knife tighter until he feels it dig into his flesh.

"When have they ever played fair?" Bobby asks gently. "Demons lie."

"Not to me," Sam snaps.

"Then why'd you call us?" Ellen asks. She sounds genuinely curious. "If Dean's Grade-A human, why do you need our help? We ain't doctors."

"Because he was in Hell. Time passes differently there, and Dean…” Sam takes a breath, presses on, “Dean was down there for thirty years. Thirty-one. I don't think he even knows he's out." Sam turns away from them, swallowing hard. He drops his voice to a mumble. "And because he's terrified of me." He doesn't look back up, but he can feel the weight of their stares on him. Can practically hear them say, _Well, can you blame him?_

Ellen stands. "I'm gonna go buy us some things. Supermarket should be open by now.”

"Closest one's a twenty mile drive," Bobby says.

"I’ve got gas." He hears her moving to leave and then her feet pause in Sam’s field of vision.

Sam keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the warped floorboards. He knows Ellen’s studying him and he resolutely refuses to meet her gaze. Even when she puts her hand on his shoulder and squeezes it gently.

"I'll be back soon."

After Ellen's gone, Sam watches Dean sleep. The sun rises higher, and the warmer the light gets, the more he can see how pale Dean is. Socked feet silent on the wooden floor, Sam moves closer to his brother. There are dots of red and brown oozing through his bandages; they will need to be changed soon. Sam shifts his weight from his right leg to his left, debating whether or not Dean will sleep through a bandage swap.

It's been nearly twelve hours since Ruby knocked Dean out and he should stay asleep. But Sam can't stand watching anymore, needs to do something more to ease Dean's pain. Memories of Hell won't be as easy to treat as wounds.

Navigating quietly past Bobby, asleep on the recliner by the window, Sam gets his med-kit from the kitchen cabinet where he’d stowed it last night, and sits on the coffee table next to the couch, making sure Dean's still out cold before he touches the edge of the bandage. He cuts through the gauze carefully with his knife, and pulls back the stained cloth. The wounds don't look any better. In fact, they look worse than when he’d cleaned them last. The largest of the wounds in Dean's middle is oozing brownish-red pus and the skin around the edges looks shiny and inflamed. The tight stitches Sam had made just hours ago are already straining the puffy flesh.

 _My fault,_ Sam thinks for the thousandth time. _He was scared of me._

With trembling fingers, Sam brings a wet cloth to the wound, mops up what he can of the infection and starts to cover the edges of the wound with antibiotic ointment. A shuddering breath leaves Dean, and Sam freezes, watches his brother for any other signs he's waking up. But in seconds his breathing evens out again.

Sam finishes cleaning and redressing the wounds, covers them again with fresh gauze and self-adhesive tape. He throws away the foul-smelling old bandages and sits back down in the chair in the corner, trying to rest his eyes. He needs to be ready for Dean when he wakes up.

It's not so much sleep as immediate unconsciousness that grabs Sam and pulls him under. When he wakes up again, it's hours later and there are tiny speckles of red forming on Dean's clean gauze.

Fist clenching and unclenching, Sam thinks that if the wounds don't look better by tonight he'll call Ruby.

She’d revived Dean's corpse enough for it to be habitable; there has to be something she knows to help the wounds heal cleanly. Or maybe Ruby could teach him how to speed up Dean's healing. The demon blood always helped Sam heal faster, maybe there's a way he can use his powers to heal Dean. Bobby is still snoring steadily, and Sam runs his thumb over his phone one last time before pulling it out of his pocket. He walks out onto the porch, exhales white breath into the crisp morning air, and dials Ruby's number.

 _"Didn't think I'd hear from you so soon,"_ she says by way of greeting.

"I need your help." Sam eyes Bobby through the window, but he's still sleeping, and Dean hasn't moved a muscle in nearly an hour. It looks as though the spell would see its way through the afternoon.

_"What else is new?"_

"Dean's wounds… they look bad. Infected. I cleaned them, but antibiotic cream can only do so much. Can you make something to heal him? Some kind of spell?"

She scoffs. "To fix Hellhound wounds? Those go a little deeper than the flesh, you know."

"There has to be something we can do." Sam pauses. "Or something _I_ can do. What if I drank more… could I get strong enough to—"

 _"To heal him? No. That's not how it works. Your powers… They’re from Hell. You get that, right?"_ Ruby asks, her tone both pitying and scolding, the teacher perpetually burdened with an inept pupil.

"Yeah," Sam says, quietly. His hand curls into a fist, and his fingernails dig into his palm. He knows he won't like what she's going to say next.

_"Healing others… that's not really our game."_

"But Dean— Even after his wounds heal… you saw what he's like. How's he supposed to get better with thirty-one years of Hell in his head? There has to be something we can do. Something you can teach me. To help him forget."

 _"You want to heal him and wipe his brain clean?”_ She huffs derisively. _“Talk to the angels."_

"I don't believe in angels." Sam swallows. "Not anymore."

_"Suit yourself."_

Through the window, Bobby shifts in his chair, and Sam knows he's running out of time. "Is Lilith still alive?"

_"You already know the answer to that."_

"Where is she?" Sam's voice is quiet, but his ears start to pound and when he opens his hand, little sparks of lightning are flickering between his fingertips.

 _"Hiding. She's not going to make it easy on you. She'll be ready."_ Ruby pauses. _“You really pissed her off, making her run like that.”_

"I don't care," Sam snaps, the power inside of him whispering promises. "Find her."

_"Sure I'll get right on that. Not like I have a price on my head or anything."_

The light around Sam's fingers turns deep gold. "Find. Her.”

Dean shifts on the couch, and even through the window, Sam can hear the sound he makes. It comes again, all soft and pained and broken. Dean is waking up.

Sam ends the call without waiting for Ruby’s reply, and reels his power back inside himself, because the last thing Dean needs is to see Sam's fingers glowing. He opens the door silently and walks back into the living room.

Bobby's eyes open wearily and he turns at Sam's approach. "Ellen back?"

Sam shakes his head, and moves around the table, sitting on it gingerly. It might not be wise, especially if Dean's still afraid of him, but if he's in pain, then Sam needs to be there — to do whatever he can to fix it. The bandage on Dean's left side is stained more than it was minutes earlier, which might be where his distress is coming from.

"Hey," Sam says, his voice as gentle as he can possibly make it.

Dean's breath hitches as his eyes open, blinking against the light before he turns his head slowly towards the sound of Sam's voice. His mouth curves a bit. It looks almost like a smile. "I know," he says.

 _What do you know?_ Sam wonders, and that thought gets more unpleasant as he sees the bitterness bleed into Dean's expression.

"I know you're not him. You can wear his face all you want, but I know—"

"Dean, it's me," Sam interrupts, unease knotting his gut. "It's Sam."

"—who you are," Dean snarls the last few words his face shifting into a grimace as he starts to sit up.

"Don't— Try to stay still, okay?" Sam says, resisting the urge to push Dean back down. "You're hurt."

"It's not real. None of this is real," Dean says. A fresh circle of red stains the bandage under his ribs as he pushes himself higher.

"Dean. Lay down," Sam pleads, desperate for him to listen. And then regrets it immediately when Dean's body stiffens and presses itself down into the couch.

"Sam—" Bobby says, staring at him with a mix of apprehension and surprise. "Was that you?"

"Both of them today?" Dean says, his eyes darting around, wide with fear. His voice is low and shaky, a weak attempt at that fearlessness he always used before. "Thought maybe you'd try something new, but, no, you always stick to the classics, huh?"

"No, Dean, please listen to me. You're not in Hell. I got you out," Sam says, gently easing his mental hold on Dean. He hadn't even meant to pin him down; he'd just been so worried about the wound and, _dammit. why can't Ruby find something to help. She's useless._ And Sam himself feels useless. "I got you out," he repeats, hoping Dean can see past the color of his eyes to the truth.

Bobby slides his chair a bit closer, holding his hands up, like he's trying to calm a spooked beast. "It's true, son. You're topside — a cabin in Wisconsin.”

The laugh that comes from Dean’s mouth is horrible and sad. "Really? That's the best you can come up with? All that time in my head and you don't get how this could never happen?”

"Why not?" Sam asks.

"If my brother really had eyes like yours, Bobby would've sent his ass back to Hell the second he saw him. He's not stupid."

"Dean—" Sam says again, fighting back the lump in his throat.

"Stop using his face!" Dean screams, sitting up again, and Sam doesn't stop him this time. He won't. He does the only thing he can — he stands and walks out of the room, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep the tears in his eyes from spilling down.

Sam pauses in the kitchen, long enough to hear Dean call him a yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Then he yanks the door open and rushes outside, nearly slamming into Ellen as she makes her way up the porch with two full brown paper bags.

"What happened?" she asks, looking from Sam to the window.

"He woke up," Sam says. “Bobby’s with him.” He lets out a shaky huff of air.

Ellen looks at him like she wants to say something, to ask how bad it was. She smiles at him, a little pitying. “Don’t go too far. I'm making chili."

 _If you knew, if you had any idea what I did — how fucking far I fell, you wouldn't be giving me the time of day,_ Sam thinks. He did what he had to do to free Dean, and he'd do it all again in a heartbeat, but he never expected anyone else to condone it. He's damned himself forever, irrevocably changed what he is, and now, even when he's trying to help his brother heal, all he seems to do is make it worse. He doesn't deserve anyone's sympathy.

Ellen bumps the door back open with her hip, adds, "I'll tell you when it's ready," before heading inside.

Sam nods at her, too grateful at being treated like a human to be ashamed by the hot, wet trail making its way down his cheek.

The door closes a second later, and Sam's alone.

After a long while, Bobby comes out holding two beers, hands one to Sam before twisting the cap off his own.

"Chili ain't ready yet," he says, settling on the steps beside him.

Sam nods and takes a sip of the beer, wondering if it's laced with holy water. Probably is. Not like it matters.

They drink in silence for a minute or two. Somewhere nearby, a mourning dove coos.

"How is he?" Sam asks.

"Calmer." Bobby shrugs. "Still doesn't trust me, but Ellen nearly got him to crack a smile. She's got a way about her. Especially with hurt folk. And I think maybe the hell-spawn didn't use her face with Dean. At least not as much as ours."

A wave of relief floods Sam, and now he almost feels like smiling.

"It's been better since you came out here." It's clear from his tone that Bobby doesn't mean it the way it comes out, the way it cuts. "I know you were trying to help, Sam, but you gotta know that Dean's gonna have a fit every time he sees…" Bobby gestures at Sam's face, at his eyes.

"Yeah." Sam looks down at the crooked porch steps.

"I think it might be best if you give Dean some space."

The words slither down Sam's spine and he leaps to his feet. "Bobby, no— he just got out of Hell, and there's still demons out there, I have to keep him safe."

"And what am I? Chopped liver?" Bobby snorts. "Come on, Sam, you two— you're like sons to me. I'll keep him safe. And so will Ellen. You know that." He pauses. “Ellen already talked to Jo… She’s gonna stay with him until he’s ready, no matter how long it takes. She won't leave his side.”

The beads of sweat on the bottle Sam's clutching start to sizzle and Bobby eyes it nervously. He won't look Sam in the eyes though. He's _scared_ of him. They're all scared of him. Sam takes the three short steps down to the ground. "I'm not—” _a monster_ , he thinks. _But I am, I am._ "I won't hurt him. Or you— any of you."

"You already have," Bobby says. It's too sorrowful to be an accusation. His voice strains when he adds, "You overrode his brain."

"That was an accident—"

"How many other accidents are you gonna have?" Brow furrowed, Bobby meets Sam's eyes. "Your bottle's melting."

Sam tries to think of something to say, but he can't. He can't even look Bobby in the face. All he can do is drop his warped beer bottle to the ground, and watch the sparse blades of grass it lands near move in the wind.

Bobby sighs. "I'll tell you the second he figures out where he is, okay? And we'll explain the whole yellow-eyes thing to him." He sounds tired. "He'll get over it. He will. He loves you more than — well, too damn much. He's not gonna be mad forever."

It’s not Dean being angry Sam’s worried about. He’d take fury. Rage would be better than abject terror. What makes his stomach clench is the thought of Dean never understanding that Sam isn’t a demon, isn’t possessed, that he’s still human and still his brother.

Bobby stands. “I’m sorry,” he says, grips Sam’s shoulder for a moment before releasing it. “I wish things were different, too.” He sighs, turns, and the door clatters shut behind him.

Hours pass, Ellen and Bobby both come and go, tell him the chili's ready and he should come in to eat something. The sun dips behind the trees surrounding the property. Sam swings the long-since-empty warped bottle back-and-forth between two fingers. He’s already peeled off the singed labels, shredding them into tiny pieces and the outside of the bottle has long since gone dry. The sky is beginning to deepen slightly into indigo when the smell of chili spices and ground beef makes his stomach growl loudly enough to make him move.

He’s careful not to let the door slam, shuts it silently behind him. He even toes off his boots by the entrance, padding on hunter-stealth socked feet. There’s a hole in one cotton heel and he can feel the floor, all cool smooth boards. There are two cans of Campbell’s soup on the counter. One — chicken noodle — is open and there is a small saucepan on the draining board beside the sink. The other is tomato and Sam wonders how Ellen knew about Dean’s favorite, the old default he always gyrated toward whenever one of them wasn’t feeling well back when they were kids. He almost wants to tell Ellen to add rice to it when she makes it. There’s a large pot simmering on the stove and he doesn’t make a sound when he lifts the cover from the stainless steel pot, ladles hearty chili into the empty ceramic bowl on the counter Ellen must’ve left for him. The smells are heavenly — spicy, meaty, hot. He replaces the lid, cringing as it rings out, clear as a bell, against the rim.

He sits at the table, out of sight from the living room, and takes a bite. Beans and spices and meat explode in warm flavor over his tongue, racing their heat down his esophagus to pool into his stomach. His gut contracts hungrily on itself in a way it hasn’t in so long and it spurs him on. He eats until the bowl is empty, serves himself a second helping. Halfway in, he feels almost the way he used to, before Ruby started giving him something better than food, but the second bowl proves too much and leaves him queasy. He sets the bowl and spoon into the sink. Exhaling, he slumps, hands gripping either side of the sink. It’s time to go, as much as he doesn't want it to be.

He makes his slow way to the narrow doorway between the kitchen and living room and stands in the opening, sliding his feet back into boots. He can see his brother from his vantage point, still broken, still weak. Sam got Dean out, just like he swore he would, but he can't undo what those bastards did to him. He can't even help him heal.

Dean's sitting up now, propped against a pile of pillows, blanket covering his lap, another one draped around his bare shoulders, his torso strapped up with clean bandages. He’s sipping from a bowl of something — chicken broth, probably — and Ellen's talking to him in low, soothing tones and supporting the base of the bowl between slow tilts. He’s still too pale and it reminds Sam of hospitals and ventilators and heart attacks, but he looks calm and almost relaxed. Sam lets himself hope as he breathes a sigh of relief and turns to go.

"Leave me alone!" Dean screams, "You're _not_ him!" The blanket slides off his shoulders as he lunges sideways in Sam’s direction, all fear and rage. He doubles over instantly, nearly toppling off the couch with a strangled sound low in his throat; only Ellen’s arm, curled around his ribs, keeps him in his seat. Ignoring the upturned bowl and soiled quilt, she slides in closer and tries to prop him back against the pillows. His face is contorted, flushed, and there’s a watery stain of red oozing through the folds of the bandages. He doesn’t stop making that awful keening sound and neither does he unbend, clawing at Ellen.

Sam doesn’t move, horrified.

“No,” Dean gasps, eyes staring over Ellen’s shoulder at Sam. His voice is wrecked, the whisper loud in the room, “nonononononono.” His breath hitches. “You— You swore. You f-fucking swore you w-wouldn’t…” There’s another painful-sounding wheeze and he curls even more into Ellen, unable to hold himself up any longer. She manhandles him gently back into his seat, still holding him. Then, on the verge of sobbing: “I got off…” then, softer still, “I f-fucking got off…”

Bile surges in Sam's throat and he steps back, his shoulder colliding with the doorpost. He stares wild-eyed around the room, frozen in place by Dean’s words, the sight of his brother crying.

Bobby approaches him with spread hands as though he’s the one spooked. “Sam,” he says softly, and it's a plea.

Sam shakes his head side-to-side, throws one last glance into Dean’s direction, then turns and runs.

**::: ::: :::**


	12. Epilogue

Ruby finds him on the side of the empty highway, or rather the buckled, patched strip of road that passes for one here. He's about six miles from the address he gave her. His hood is up and he's got his head down, shoulders slouched forwards, hands in his pockets. He looks defeated. And lost.

She's seen him in nearly every state — from suicidal, to frenzied with lust or power or both — but his phone call an hour ago had been heartbreaking. Or it would have been, if she still had a heart.

 _"He thinks I'm a demon… won't even look at me."_ Sam's voice had been interrupted with sniffling too irregular to be from the brisk air. _"He's scared of Bobby too, but way more scared of me… Ellen says she'll keep him safe."_ She'd let him talk, given him time. Waited for him to demand something to fix his eyes, or a spell to ease Dean's mind. But in the end he'd only wanted one thing: _"Come get me. Please."_

Sam has no idea about the chatter on the demonic grapevine, the things they're saying about him. There's never been someone like him before. Only one other made it through all seven levels of the challenge, and he reigned as their king for centuries thereafter; nobody has ever risen so quickly through the game, laying waste to the best Hell had to offer, and nobody ever made a demon of Lilith's caliber tuck tail and run. He's gone from a novelty to a legend overnight and if he wanted to make a play for the crown all he'd have to do is give the word. He already has his army, whether he wants one or not.

She slows the sweet little orange-and-black Mustang she lifted a few towns back and just might keep, and steers a tight U-turn, pulling up next to him. The hood of his sweatshirt is pulled low over his forehead, hiding his eyes. He climbs in, shuts the door with a thud, not even sparing her a glance. After a moment, he exhales, pushes the hood back from his face, and turns to her. The flat ocher color beneath the long strands of hair damp with sweat curtaining his face catches her breath again, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink, and there’s a flare of relief among the sorrow and pain. The more she searches, the more she realizes nothing has changed. Sam settles back into his seat and closes his eyes.

She pulls back onto the road, drumming her thumb against the steering wheel for a few minutes before saying, "Sam, I'm sorry—"

"Don't." His voice is as sharp and brittle as glass.

It's a warning. His eyes are open again, and their angry hue matches his tone. She can see his thoughts in the stern set of his jaw, the faint lines on his forehead; he doesn't want sympathy, or pity. He doesn't want to talk about it. That's fine. She doesn't need conversation to drive.

She doesn't say another word until they turn onto the interstate. She makes note of the exit that'll take them back to Illinois and glances at Sam. He's staring out the window. It's raining, fat drops dotting the glass, and the light of his eyes catches in them, refracting like tiny beads of pale sunlight. He's never going to be fully human again and, from his expression, he knows it.

She can feel the tension between them, the heat pooling low within her, the way Sam’s blood calls to hers. He still wants, _needs_ her, no matter how much he wants to deny that it’s over now that he got what he wanted, completed his single-minded mission and she suspects that it wouldn’t take much to nudge him. "Glove compartment," Ruby says, breaking the silence.

Sam moves after a few seconds, reaching out with his long arm to fumble with the glove-box handle. He pulls it open, revealing the two silver flasks inside.

"Just my blood, nothing special," she says. "Thought you might want some."

Sam slams the compartment shut again and turns back to the window.

The rain grows heavier, and by the time they take the off-ramp onto Route 51, Ruby's got the wipers going full speed. "They're waiting for you back at the arena."

"Who?"

"Your fans. Followers. Defectors from Team Lilith."

Sam studies her, his yellow eyes making her equal parts unsettled and proud. "Do they know where she is?"

"Some of them might."

Sam turns away from her, looking out the windshield. After a long moment and several miles of silence, he pops open the glove compartment, and pulls out the flask on the right before closing the tiny hatch again. He uncaps the flask, settles back in his seat, and drinks.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the road ahead, Ruby smiles.  


[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/blood_and_pie/50235106/58854/58854_original.jpg)

  
**::: ::: :::**


End file.
